Aleria descended the creaky stairs from her modest living quarters above the clinic, a roll of parchment clutched tightly in her hand. The main chamber below was mercifully quiet for a change, the once incessant stream of the sick and injured having slowed to a steady trickle in the past few days.

Haddy, ever the diligent assistant, busied herself with straightening the sparse furnishings and sweeping the floor. She paused in her efforts as Aleria's footsteps announced her presence, lifting her gaze questioningly.

"I'll be stepping out for a short while," Aleria informed her, holding up the rolled parchment as evidence. "There's something I need from the market."

Haddy's brow furrowed slightly at that, a brief look of concern flickering across her round features.

"Do you need me to go instead?" she asked, already moving to set aside her broom. "I can make the trip if you'd prefer not to trouble yourself, m'lady."

Aleria felt a small smile tug at the corners of her lips at the younger woman's eagerness. It was endearing, if a tad overbearing at times. She shook her head.

"No, no, that won't be necessary," she assured Haddy, unable to entirely hide her amusement. "This is something I should handle myself."

Haddy opened her mouth as if to protest further, but Aleria lifted a hand to forestall her.

"I have an idea that might help lighten the load here a touch," she explained, giving the roll of parchment a meaningful show. "At least when it comes to the more minor cases, when I'm busy or not around."

Understanding dawned in Haddy's eyes then, swiftly followed by a look of keen interest. Aleria could practically see the questions forming behind the younger woman's gaze, but she remained blessedly silent for the moment, simply nodding in acquiescence.

"Very well, if you're certain," Haddy conceded, unable to entirely mask her curiosity. "But don't be going too far, mind. I'll need you back here soon enough, I've no doubt."

A wry chuckle escaped Aleria's lips at that as she turned towards the door, already feeling the faint tug of anticipation.

"Have no fear on that count," she tossed over her shoulder, unable to resist the urge to tease her well-meaning assistant. "I've no intention of abandoning you to the wolves just yet, my dear."

Aleria pulled her cloak tighter around herself as she made her way through the bustling streets of Last Gate, the chill morning air nipping at her exposed skin. The market square was a riot of sounds and smells, vendors hawking their wares with the usual enthusiastic aplomb as townsfolk milled about in search of goods and provisions.

She moved through the throngs with practised ease, her sharp gaze scanning the various stalls and shopfronts intently. It wasn't until she neared the far edge of the market that she finally spotted what she'd been searching for - a stout wooden building bearing a faded sign depicting a hammer and anvil. The unmistakable markings of a smithy.

Squaring her shoulders, Aleria altered her course to approach the open doorway, the sound of ringing metal growing louder with each step. She paused on the threshold for a heartbeat, peering inside to find the interior dimly lit and swelteringly warm from the banked forge.

A large man stood bent over an anvil; hammer raised to strike the glowing metal clenched in a pair of tongs. As Aleria watched, the figure straightened, lowering the hammer to wipe at its brow with a soot-stained forearm.

It was then that she caught her first clear glimpse of the smith's face - a visage that was distinctly non-human. Sharp, angled features and a pair of pointed ears marked the man as having clear elven heritage. And yet, small tusks peering from his lower lip, and sienna hue to his skin just as plainly betrayed orcish blood as well.

Aleria studied the smith's features intently, unable to prevent a slight narrowing of her eyes as she took in the unmistakable evidence of his mixed heritage. Half-orc, half-elf - a rare enough pairing at the best of times, and one that had likely grown only more difficult in the years since the onset of the Demon War.

Orcs had been a relative rarity within the borders of the Allied Kingdoms even before the war, their tribes keeping largely to the harsher, more isolated regions. But when the Demon King's forces had swept across the lands, sowing chaos and destruction, many of those orcish clans had thrown their lot in with him - either out of fear, or simply a desire for the conflict and plunder that the war promised.

Those few tribes that had refused, instead fleeing south in search of refuge within the kingdoms' boundaries, had found little more than persecution and suspicion awaiting them. Judged guilty by simple association with their warmongering brethren, they had been shunned, if not outright attacked on sight in some cases.

A pang of sympathy tugged at Aleria's heart as she studied the half-breed smith, unable to shake the notion that his mixed heritage must have made his life... difficult, to say the least. The elven delicacy of his features may have eased that burden somewhat, lending him an undeniable, exotic handsomeness. But the orcish blood would always show through, marking him as an outsider no matter where he tread.

The smith's voice, a deep, smooth baritone, pulled Aleria from her musings.

"Just a moment, please. I'll be right with you."

True to his word, the half-breed deftly finished his current task, quenching the glowing steel in a nearby trough with a hiss of steam. He then set the freshly tempered metal aside with care before turning to face her fully, brushing his hands off on a well-worn leather apron.

Up close, Aleria could make out more details of his unique features. Angular cheekbones lent his face a chiselled, almost severe aspect that was offset by full lips and a strong, squared jawline. Flecks of green seemed to smoulder in his eyes, vivid pinpricks against the dark brown of his irises.

"Welcome," he greeted, offering her a slight incline of his head. His manners were impeccable, the lilt of his voice cultured and refined in stark contrast to his rough surroundings. "How can I be of assistance today?"

Aleria found herself momentarily taken aback by the smith's courteous demeanour, her earlier misgivings fading somewhat. Clearing her throat, she lifted the roll of parchment clutched in her hands.

"I require several items to be forged from these designs, if you would be so kind," she explained, her own tone polite but brisk. Professionalism had become something of a well-practised mask for her over the years. "They're meant to aid in my... work."

One of the smith's thick brows arched upwards a fraction at that, curiosity glinting in his strange eyes. But he simply nodded once more, extending a calloused hand to accept the proffered parchment.

The smith unrolled the parchment with deft movements, revealing the design sketched upon its surface - a disk covered in an intricate array of runes and sigils. His brow furrowed slightly as he studied the pattern, tracing the shapes with one blunt fingertip.

"An interesting design," he murmured, glancing up to meet Aleria's gaze. "What material did you have in mind for its construction?"

"Iron," Aleria replied without hesitation. "Solid iron, nothing more."

The smith's mouth quirked in a faint smile at that, as if her answer had pleased him in some way. He inclined his head once more.

"A sturdy choice," he rumbled in that deep baritone. "Though I must confess, I find myself curious as to the purpose of these... talismans?"

His eyes flickered meaningfully to the runes adorning the disk, one brow arching in silent inquiry. Aleria felt the briefest flicker of trepidation, an old habit born from years of keeping her abilities closely guarded. But there was no hint of suspicion or malice in the smith's demeanour, only open curiosity.

"I am the town's new healer," she explained, keeping her tone level and matter of fact. "An enchanted stock of items such as these would allow me to store minor healing spells, to be used as needed."

Understanding dawned on the half-breed's features at her words, the furrow in his brow smoothing out. He nodded slowly, seeming to mull over her explanation for a moment.

"Ah, I see," he said at last. "Word did make its way around the market of a new medic arriving in Last Gate."

A faint, lopsided smile quirked the smith's lips then, one tusk peeking out to lend his expression a slightly endearing quality.

"Though I must admit, I had not expected one quite so... unconventional in her methods." He gave the parchment a meaningful look. "I am Bran, my father and I run this forge. It will be my honour to craft these trinkets for you, mistress...?"

Aleria inclined her head in a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Aleria," she supplied, offering the smith her name in turn.

Bran's smile broadened a fraction at that, the expression seeming to lend his rugged features an unexpected warmth. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Aleria."

His gaze drifted back down to the parchment still clutched in one large hand, studying the runic design with a contemplative air.

"If I may?" he began after a moment's pause. "Do these need to be disk-shaped?"

One broad shoulder lifted in a half-shrug as Bran glanced back up at her, his expression open and inquisitive.

"I have a few small metal plates already forged in the back," he explained. "About the size you've outlined here, but more rectangular in shape. It would save some time and effort, if the specific form does not hold any significance for their intended purpose?"

Aleria felt her gaze drift downwards at Bran's words, fingers unconsciously rising to trace over the contours of the iron pendant hanging about her own neck. The runes etched into its surface almost worn smooth from years of idle tracing, their meaning known to her alone.

"No, the shape bears little importance," she confirmed after a beat, giving her head a slight shake to dismiss her reverie. "So long as the material is pure iron, and the runes properly inscribed, a simple flat plate would suffice just as well."

Aleria watched as Bran nodded in acknowledgment of her words, his expression thoughtful. Then, with a slight turn of his head, he called out towards the back of the dimly lit forge.

"Pa, join me for a time?"

There was a brief pause, the only sounds the crackle of the banked coals and the faint ringing of metal as it cooled. Then, from the shadows of a back chamber, a hulking figure emerged - a full-blooded orc by the looks of him, his muscular frame dwarfing even Bran's sizeable stature.

Grizzled features twisted into a scowl as the older orc squinted against the relatively brighter light of the main forge, thick brows lowering over eyes like smouldering coals. He lumbered forward with the ponderous gait of one carrying considerable bulk, coming to a halt at Bran's side with a grunt.

"This is my father, Kurg," Bran said by way of introduction, though the faintest hints of a smirk played about his lips as he eyed the dour orc. "I wish to consult with him regarding your commission."

Kurg's gaze flickered briefly to Aleria, that scowl deepening for the barest instant as he seemed to size her up. Then, with a rumbling snort of acknowledgment, his attention shifted back to his son.

Bran held up the parchment bearing her runic design, gesturing towards the various shapes and sigils.

"We have a number of spare iron plates that would suit this purpose," he explained, glancing between his father and Aleria. "How much, do you think, if we made use of those?"

Kurg leaned in closer, squinting down at the parchment with a furrowed brow. His gruff voice, when he spoke, carried the unmistakable rasp and broken cadence of one struggling with the common tongue.

"Rune... carving," he rumbled, one meaty finger tracing over the intricate design. "Take time. But metal, we have."

The orc paused, seemingly mulling over the matter with that same intense scowl. At last, he lifted his gaze to meet Aleria's, the smouldering coals of his eyes locking with her own.

"Fifty copper," Kurg stated, the words emerging slow but decisive. "Each."

Aleria felt her brow furrow slightly at Kurg's stated price, unable to completely mask her wince. Fifty copper per talisman was a bit steeper than she'd hoped, though not entirely unexpected she supposed. Still, with her current funds...

"Might there be some way to bring that cost down a touch?" she asked, keeping her tone level and politely inquisitive. "I'll need a fair number of these talismans to start."

Bran seemed to pick up on her unspoken meaning, offering her a slight nod of understanding.

"Haggling isn’t uncommon here," he said, the rumbling timbre of his voice holding a placating note. "If the price gives you pause, we could perhaps arrange for part of it to be covered through trade instead of coin."

One broad shoulder lifted in an easy shrug as Bran's strange eyes studied her openly.

"These enchantments," he began, glancing down at the parchment still clutched in one hand. "How many uses might one expect to derive from a single one, would you estimate?"

Aleria felt her gaze drift down to the iron pendant hanging about her neck, fingers tracing over the worn grooves of its runic patterns as she considered her response. At last, she met Bran's inquisitive stare once more.

"Four or five uses, I would say," she replied, keeping her tone measured. "Perhaps more, depending on the severity of the injury being tended. But these are intended only for minor wounds - Cuts, gashes, hard knocks and aches. Nothing too severe."

The smith nodded slowly at her explanation, seeming to weigh her words. After a moment's pause, Bran glanced towards his father.

"What say you, Pa?" he asked, the lilt of his cultured voice holding an undercurrent of subtle amusement. "A fair trade, given their stated purpose and limitations?"

Kurg's brow furrowed in that now-familiar scowl, his gaze flickering between Aleria and his son as he mulled over the matter. At length, he gave a slow, rumbling grunt.

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"Ten copper each," the old orc bit out, his gravelly tones brooking no argument. "Rest... in trade."

Aleria felt her shoulders sag slightly with relief at the revised price, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"That's more than fair," she agreed with a nod of gratitude. "Name your terms for the remaining balance, and you shall have it."

Bran's mouth quirked in a slight smile at Aleria's ready agreement, giving a small nod of acknowledgement.

"In that case," he began, gesturing vaguely with the parchment still clutched in one large hand. "For every set of, say, ten you commission from us, perhaps you could provide us with five more pre-enchanted ones in trade?"

Aleria felt her brows lifting slightly at the half-breed's proposed terms, surprise flickering across her features. Bran seemed to pick up on her unspoken query, offering a small shrug of explanation.

"Most of our clientele are simple labourers and craftsmen," he elaborated. "The sort who might find good use for minor healing charms to help ease the aches and pains that come with their work."

Aleria considered Bran's words, mulling over his suggestion. It was a shrewd bit of business sense, to be sure - taking a portion of her wares in trade, only to then sell them on at a markup. A small frown creased her brow as she eyed him, wondering if she ought to feel slighted at such a ploy.

And yet, as her gaze drifted over to the hulking, impassive figure of Kurg looming beside his son, Aleria found her misgivings fading somewhat. The dour old orc's countenance was as unreadable as ever, his features set in that perpetual glower. But there was an unmistakable weariness to his stance, the weight of years etched into the lines of his craggy face.

Aleria's frown softened somewhat at that realisation, her eyes drifting back to Bran's open, earnest expression. He watched her, waiting patiently for her decision with no hint of guile or ill intent. Just a pragmatic businessman, seizing upon an opportunity where he saw one.

At length, Aleria gave a small nod of acquiescence, her features smoothing out into a faint smile.

"Very well," she agreed, holding Bran's inquisitive gaze. "For every ten unenchanted discs or plates you forge for me, I shall provide five more with minor healing spells worked into the runes. Does that sound amenable?"

Bran's answering smile was immediate, crinkling the corners of his vivid eyes.

"More than fair, Mistress Aleria," Bran rumbled in that deep baritone, ducking his head in a respectful nod of gratitude. "You have struck a generous bargain."

He glanced towards his father then, that roguish grin still playing about his full lips.

"Did you hear that, Pa?" the younger smith asked, his rich tones holding a teasing lilt. "The lady has accepted our terms. Best get those old arms of yours working a chisel, eh? We've talismans to craft!"

Kurg snorted at that, the sound more akin to a disdainful grunt than any true acknowledgment. Even so, Aleria could have sworn she caught a glimmer of approval, however fleeting, in the old orc's smouldering gaze as it flickered between her and his son.

Then, with a rumbling noise that might have been words in his native tongue, the grizzled smith turned and lumbered back towards the banked forge, already reaching for a set of tongs as he went.

Aleria inclined her head in a polite farewell as Bran bid her good day, watching as the smith turned to rejoin his father at the forge. A faint smile played about her lips as she observed the pair - the grizzled old orc grumbling something in his guttural native tongue, prompting an amused chuckle from his half-breed son.

Shaking her head in mild bemusement, Aleria turned and made her way out into the bustling marketplace once more. The raucous sounds and pungent aromas of the crowded bazaar washed over her in a familiar, almost comforting rush. It had been some time since she'd last found herself amidst the vibrant chaos of a thriving town like this.

Her business at the forge concluded, at least for the moment, Aleria allowed herself to wander amidst the stalls and vendors lining the cramped square. Haggling cries and boisterous laughter mingled with the cloying scents of spice and roasting meat, forming a din that should have grated on her senses. Instead, she found the lively ambiance oddly... reassuring, somehow.

Aleria moved from stall to stall at an unhurried pace, perusing the wares on offer with a critical but appreciative eye. Simple foodstuffs, sturdy garments and tools, mundane necessities for day-to-day living - a stark contrast to the more specialised supplies and armaments she had once required.

With a thoughtful frown, Aleria reached into the pouch at her belt to finger the few remaining coins within. Enough, perhaps, to replenish some essentials to stock her new lodgings. A bit of salted meat, some hardy grains and smoked fish, if the prices proved reasonable...

As she meandered down a somewhat less crowded side street, her gaze was drawn to a half-constructed building looming at the end of the narrow lane. The skeletal wooden framework rose several stories high, surrounded by an array of sawhorses and stacks of neatly cut timbers. A small cluster of figures milled about amidst the organised chaos, shouting gruff instructions back and forth as they hefted beams and tools.

One burly silhouette, in particular, caught Aleria's eye - the unmistakable stout, broad-shouldered figure of a dwarf bellowing orders from the middle of the street. Even from this distance, she recognized the craggy face of Oriv StoneDelver.

As she approached, Oriv's gruff bellow carried clearly over the sounds of hammers and saws, his meaty finger jabbing emphatically towards one of the upper levels.

"You there, lad!" The dwarven patriarch's gravelly roar seemed to make the very air tremble. "Those corner joints need double-bracing, ya' daft mudskull! This whole blasted scaffold'll come tumblin' down if ya' don't—"

Aleria waited patiently as Oriv dressed down the young dwarf, her gaze flickering over the chaotic construction site. Despite the dwarven patriarch's bluster, there was an unmistakable twinkle of good-natured mirth in his eye as he berated the lad.

Finally, Oriv seemed to become aware of her presence, his tirade trailing off into a rumbling grunt. Bushy brows drew together in a momentary squint as he peered in her direction. Then, recognition dawning, the dwarven foreman broke into a broad, gap-toothed grin.

"Well, I'll be!" Oriv boomed, raising a meaty hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon glare as he regarded her. "If it ain't m'lady healer, come to grace us with 'er presence!"

Aleria felt the corners of her mouth quirk upwards at the dwarf's boisterous greeting. She inclined her head respectfully even as Oriv waved her over with an impatient gesture.

"Finally managed to escape that clinic I see," he called out in that gruff bellow as she approached. "To what do we owe the honour?"

"Just taking in the sights, Master Oriv," Aleria replied easily, coming to a halt before the dwarven foreman. "Your construction seems to be coming along well."

Oriv snorted loudly at that, shooting a withering look at the sheepish young'un he'd been dressing down moments before.

"Aye, well enough I s'pose," he grumbled, giving the lad a prod with one stubby finger. "So long as this lot of beardless pups don't go topplin' the whole blasted pile atop their thick skulls!"

A chorus of good-natured jeers and guffaws rose up from the surrounding dwarves at their foreman's words. Aleria found herself chuckling softly at the lively banter, shaking her head in mild bemusement.

"Speaking of thick skulls," she said after the laughter had died down somewhat. "How fares Ceidin after his fall the other day? I trust he is on the mend?"

Oriv's bushy brows hiked upwards at that, his ruddy features splitting into a broad grin that caused the bristles of his beard to stick out every which way.

"On the mend?" he echoed with a rumbling chuckle. "That lazy lump's been milkin' it for all it's worth, if you take my meanin'! Laid up in his bed with that cracked leg propped up, lettin' his mother fuss over him like a wee babe!"

The dwarven foreman shook his head in an exaggerated show of dismay, though the gleam of paternal pride in his eye was unmistakable.

"Ah, but you know how dwarven lasses can be," Oriv continued with a wink and a sly grin. "She's like to worry that magnificent beard of hers clean off, smotherin' the poor sod with her coddlin'!"

Another rumble of laughter rolled through the assembled dwarves at their patriarch's words. Aleria found herself unable to resist smiling broadly at Oriv's familiar gruff bluster, giving a small shake of her head.

"Well, I'm glad to hear he's recovering, at least," she remarked dryly. "Even if he does seem to be taking full advantage of his mother's attentions."

Oriv snorted again at that, waving a dismissive hand.

"Ah, pay the layabout no mind, mistress," he rumbled with a crooked grin. "A few more days restin' that leg, and I'll have him back in harness soon enough..."

Aleria felt a small smile tug at the corner of her mouth as Oriv launched into another round of good-natured grumblings about his son's perceived laziness. She waited for the dwarven patriarch to wind down, choosing her moment to interject carefully.

"Speaking of the clinic, Master Oriv," she said once the laughter had died down somewhat. "If you have a free moment sometime soon, I was rather hoping you might be able to stop by."

Oriv's bushy brows hiked upwards at that, his ruddy features creasing into a look of mild surprise.

"The clinic, you say?" he echoed, stroking at his wiry beard thoughtfully. "Aye, I reckon I could spare a bit o' time to pay a visit. What did you have in mind?"

Aleria gestured vaguely back the way she'd come.

"Well, as you might have noticed, the old clinic is looking a bit... dilapidated these days," she said delicately. "I was hoping perhaps you and your crew might be able to breathe some new life into the place."

The dwarven foreman grunted, his expression growing contemplative as he mulled over her words.

"New life, you say?" Oriv rumbled, giving a slow nod of understanding. "Aye, I can see how the place might need a bit o' spit and polish, that's true enough."

"Specifically," Aleria continued, "I was hoping we might be able to open up the second floor a bit. The long-term patient rooms up there feel dreadfully cramped and gloomy, almost like... well, like prison cells, truth be told."

Oriv's brow furrowed slightly at that, though he made no move to interrupt as she elaborated further.

"My thought was that perhaps we could knock down some of the interior walls, create more of an open floor plan," she explained. "Add a few more windows as well, to let in some natural light. It would go a long way towards making the recovery space feel... brighter. More welcoming."

The dwarven patriarch was silent for a long moment, seemingly mulling over her suggestions with that same intense, furrowed look. Finally, he gave a slow nod, his craggy features splitting into an approving grin.

"Aye, I think that we can do, mistress," Oriv agreed with a rumble. He shot her a sly wink then, the gleam in his eye unmistakable. "An' if there's any particularly stubborn walls needin' a firm hand to knock 'em down, well, you just let old Oriv know. I've got a way with convincin' stone an' timber to mind their manners, you might say!"

Aleria couldn't help but laugh softly at the dwarven foreman's boisterous words, shaking her head in mild bemusement. Even so, she felt a sense of relief wash over her at Oriv's easy agreement.

"But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves just yet."

The dwarven patriarch blinked, his exuberant grin faltering somewhat as he peered at her with those keen, dark eyes. Aleria offered him a placating look.

"For the moment, I was merely hoping to get a rough quote from you on the potential costs," she explained calmly. "I'm afraid I don't quite have the funds for full renovations just yet."

Understanding dawned on Oriv's craggy features at her words. He gave a rumbling grunt of acknowledgement, nodding slowly.

"Ah, I see," the dwarf replied, his earlier boisterousness fading into a more businesslike demeanour. "Just wantin' to get a sense of what sort of coin it might take, then?"

"Precisely," Aleria confirmed with a dip of her chin. "Bernard did mention to me that I can put in a request with his office for just about anything to do with the clinic's upkeep. A quote from you on the potential renovations would most certainly help strengthen my case when I do."

Oriv's brows hiked upwards at the mention of the mayor's name, his ruddy features splitting into an approving grin once more.

"The old warhorse himself, eh?" he chuckled, giving a respectful nod. "Aye, that Blackfist of ours is a canny one, I'll give him that. If he says to put in for it, like as not the funds'll be found."

The dwarf shot her a sly wink then, his grin widening.

"Leave it to me, mistress," Oriv rumbled, puffing out his barreled chest importantly. "I'll have the lads put together a right proper tally for you - one that old Blackfist won't be able to turn his nose up at!"

Aleria felt her own smile widen at the dwarf's boisterous assurances, giving a small dip of her head in gratitude.

"You have my thanks, Master Oriv," she said sincerely. "I look forward to seeing what you and your crew come up with."

The dwarven foreman waved a calloused hand in a dismissive gesture, letting out a gruff snort.

"Think nothin' of it, m'lady," he boomed in that gravelly roar. "Just you leave the numbers to us - we'll make sure your clinic gets sorted out proper!"

With that, Oriv gave Aleria a gentle pat on the wrist, his calloused fingers surprisingly delicate against her skin.

"You helped my boy out, mistress," the dwarven patriarch rumbled, his gruff tones taking on an uncharacteristically sombre note. "An' to us dwarves, a debt like that ain't soon forgotten."

Aleria felt her brows hiking upwards at the weight behind Oriv's words, the unexpected solemnity in his gravelly voice. She opened her mouth to respond, to brush off his gratitude as merely her duty, but the dwarf wasn't yet finished.

"Way I figure it," Oriv continued, fixing her with that intense, piercing stare, "you've as good as earned yourself a place amongst the clan with that kindness, mistress."

The dwarven patriarch gave a firm nod then, as if confirming some unspoken decision. When next he spoke, that familiar boisterous bravado had returned full force to his gruff tones.

"Aye, you just consider yourself one of the StoneDelvers from here on out!" Oriv boomed with a broad, gap-toothed grin. "We dwarves, we look after our own - an' that includes you now, make no mistake!"

For a moment, Aleria could only blink, taken aback by the unexpected declaration. Part of her wanted to protest, to demur at being so readily accepted and all the implications that carried.

But then her gaze fell upon Oriv's weathered features, lined with the hard-won creases of experience and bearing that unmistakable glint of dwarven pride. She found herself unable to refuse such an earnest gesture of kinship, no matter how foreign the notion felt to her.

So instead, Aleria simply inclined her head in a show of gracious acceptance, quirking a small smile in the dwarven foreman's direction.

"I am honoured by your generous offer, Master Oriv," she replied, keeping her tone respectful but allowing a hint of warmth to bleed through. "And humbled to count myself amongst your esteemed clan, however unofficially."

Oriv's broad grin seemed to widen even further at her words, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes in an unmistakable look of approval. The dwarven patriarch gave a rumbling chuckle, thumping a meaty fist against his brawny chest.

"No need for all that 'Master' nonsense anymore, lass!" he boomed in that gruff bellow. "We're kin now, you an' me - you just call me Oriv, you hear?"

Aleria couldn't quite suppress the small quirk of amusement that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Even so, she inclined her head obligingly, feeling an unexpected sense of...belonging wash over her at the dwarf's boisterous words.

"As you say... Oriv," she replied simply, allowing just the faintest emphasis to linger on the use of his name.

The dwarf let out another rumbling guffaw at that, giving an approving nod of his craggy head. His dark eyes seemed to glitter with some unspoken emotion - pride, perhaps, or even a hint of paternal fondness.

Aleria watched with a small, bemused smile as Oriv seemed to suddenly remember himself, the short man clearing his throat gruffly. A faint flush crept up the weathered planes of his ruddy features, and he gave an abrupt nod as if to punctuate the tender moment.

"Aye, well then!" Oriv rumbled, his gruff tones regaining some of their usual bluster. "Best be gettin' back to keepin' this unruly lot in line, I reckon."

With that, the dwarven foreman turned on his heel, waddling off towards the nearby construction site with heavy, purposeful strides. Aleria watched his broad back recede for a moment, unable to quite smother the soft chuckle that bubbled up from her chest.

Sure enough, no sooner had Oriv rejoined the bustling knot of workers than his booming bellow rang out, the gentle paternal demeanour he'd shown her utterly evaporating.

"You slack-jawed gawkers!" the dwarven patriarch roared, rounding on a cluster of young dwarves loitering nearby. "What in the blazes are you all standin' about for? This frame won't raise itself, you lazy runts!"

A flurry of frantic activity erupted in the wake of Oriv's furious bellow. The group of idling dwarves scattered like startled rabbits, scrambling to grab tools and scurry back to their assigned tasks. Aleria watched with undisguised amusement as the dwarven foreman continued to berate the workers, his meaty fists planted firmly on his wide hips.

"An' you there!" Oriv's gravelly roar singled out one particularly unfortunate young'un. "Where in the nine hells did you learn to swing a blasted hammer, boy? Even a snot-nosed whelp could do a neater job!"

The dwarven lad in question flinched as if struck, his shoulders hunching as Oriv's scathing tirade continued to wash over him. Nearby, several of the older dwarves chuckled knowingly, shaking their heads in wry commiseration for the youth's plight.

Despite herself, Aleria couldn't quite stifle the soft peal of laughter that slipped free at the comically blustering display. Even from this distance, she could see the tips of Oriv's ears flushing a dull red as his ire mounted further.

Aleria turned to make her way back towards the clinic, her steps carrying a lighter cadence than when she'd first arrived in Last Gate. The unexpected kinship extended to her by Oriv had stirred something within her - a sense of belonging she hadn't felt in far too long.

Her gaze drifted idly over the bustling township as she walked, taking in the half-repaired buildings, the makeshift shacks cobbled together from salvaged materials. Everywhere she looked, Aleria could see the unmistakable fingerprints of a people striving to rebuild, to carve some semblance of home and hearth from the ravages of war.

Last Gate itself was a perfect encapsulation of that indomitable spirit, a town quite literally built upon the bones of the war's last great battlegrounds. Aleria couldn't help but feel a strange sort of kinship with the soul of the place, an almost visceral connection to its very essence.

Just as the folk of Last Gate were slowly stitching their lives back together from the tattered remnants left to them, so too was she attempting to rebuild her own existence in the wake of that all-consuming conflict. The thought brought an unexpected pang to her chest.

Aleria's mind turned towards Bernard and the trust he had placed in her by offering this chance at a new beginning. From the moment his letter had found her, he seemed to have anticipated her acceptance with an almost preternatural certainty. As if he'd simply known that she would grasp onto this fragile thread of hope like a lifeline, no matter how apprehensive or undeserving she might feel.

It stood to show just how well Bernard truly knew her, even after all these years. The gruff old man had seen her at her worst, witnessed firsthand the sheer scope of how far she was willing to go in the name of vengeance. And still he extended this olive branch.

Aleria felt her steps slow to an unhurried amble as she neared the clinic's weather-worn facade. Her emerald eyes drifted over the building, with a weary sort of fondness. Despite the peeling paint and sagging shutters, this place had already become so much more to her than a mere source of refuge.

No, the simple fact was that this rundown little clinic - much like Last Gate itself - represented something far greater. A chance at redemption, perhaps, or at the very least some small sliver of atonement.

A chance to find her way home at long last.