“Hey the tower.”  A voice broke the silence.

     “Who are you?”  Mavelle dug the dagger from under her cloak with her free hand.

     “Name’s Cragger.  I’m a peddler of sorts.  I was looking for shelter when I smelled your smoke.”

     “Come to where I can see you.”  She threw some wood on her dying fire.

     A very small of stature man stepped in front of the cave entrance.  “Are you a Dunningham dwarf?”  She asked.

     Cragger bowed, sweeping his arm out wide.  “One and the same, peddler by trade, I am.”

     “Isn’t that unusual for a mining race?”

     “A bit, but the miners need supplies and trinkets.  My line is a long line of peddlers back thirty-two generations.  If I may come close to your warm fire I will tell you our story.”

     Mavelle gasped.  “My manners, where are my manners?  Certainly Cragger, come warm yourself, and welcome.

     The dwarf entered the narrow cavern and sat near the fire.  “Thank you, after I came across a pack of wolves tearing into those bodies I was afraid to stay in the open.  What do I call you, young lady?”

     Mavelle found it odd that any man would admit a fear but liked that he had.  She warmed to the man.  “Mavelle, call me Mavelle, please.”  With a tentative smile she asked, “What is the story you would tell me?”