“You dwarves are a strange race, Seamus,” Aeron said, fixing a stray blond hair behind a pointed ear. “I’ve been wondering of late why, of all the weapons one might choose, you cling so dearly to your axes? They lack a certain finesse, no.”

  Seamus glanced at the axe he had tried to subtly hide in the leather booth next to him. It was only half-covered underneath his coat and bag. “Refined? Is that what you call those flimsy toothpicks you fight with? I’ve seen them snap like twigs against good dwarven steel.”

  Aeron let his most knowing smile play on his lips. “It is precision that wins battles, not brute force. Your axes, they are unwieldy, only suited for chopping wood, perhaps, but not for the dance of battle.”

  “The dance of battle,” Seamus scoffed. “You elves think too much like poets. A good axe doesn’t need to dance. It needs to end a fight before it begins."

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “But why an axe?” Aeron pressed. “Why not a hammer, or even a mace? You’re miners by trade, not the hewers of wood, isn’t it?”

  “Axes aren’t just weapons, Aeron. They’re a message. A reminder of where the real threat comes from.” Seamus narrowed his eyes and waited, letting the cluttering barsounds fill the silence.

  Aeron frowned.

  “Aye,” Seamus said, theatrically darkening his voice. “Your people live in trees, all high and mighty above the ground. A sword might be good in a one-to-one duel, but it can’t bring down a tree.

  Aeron raised his glass approvingly. “So it isn’t just tradition. It’s a strategy.”

  “It’s survival,” Seamus corrected, as he downed his pint in answer: “We dwarves are nothing if not survivors.”