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

Seamus grabbed the heft of his axe. “Refined? Is that what you call those flimsy toothpicks you fight with? I’ve seen them snap like twigs against good dwarven steel.”

Aeron proudly lifted his chin. “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."

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

Seamus’s eyes narrowed. “Axes aren’t just weapons, Aeron. They’re a message. A reminder of where the real threat comes from.”

Aeron frowned.

“Aye,” Seamus said, his voice darkening. “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 scoffed. “So it isn’t just tradition. It’s a strategy.”

“It’s survival,” Seamus corrected. “And we dwarves are nothing if not survivors.”

A stained glass window depicting Seamus Holedigger. A ginger dwarf with a fondness for cigars, cats and axes. [https://imgur.com/a/oOZYhQI]