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He pulled his woolly vest closer and looked about his home
for his leather boots.
The house was small by the measure of the human-sized
buildings up in the trees. But his home, built in the base of
an old, hollowed-out vallenwood, was quite large by dwar-
ven standards - opulent even, he reflected, with not a little
pride. Sure, it didn't have the large nooks and crannies
found in the caves-turned-houses of his native foothills near
the Kharolis Mountains, nor was there the ever-present
homey scent only a white-hot forge could produce. But he
had carved every inch of the inside of his tree into shelves or
friezes depicting vivid and nostalgic scenes from his home- '
land. These included a forging contest, dwarven miners at
work, and the simple skyline of his boyhood village. Such
carvings were not easily done on the stone walls of the
homes of most hill dwarves.
The stroke of his knife over a firm piece of wood was
Flint's greatest joy, though the gruff hill dwarf would never
have admitted such a sentiment. Idly, he raised his hand to
one of the friezes, touching his fingers to the carved crest of
a jagged ridge, following the dips and summits