Jher-val’s morose reflections were disturbed by a quiet knock on the rattling door that led to the forge.
“It’s open!” called Iethen. No response.
“Will y’ get in, we’re starvin’!” roared Tyrmar. Thus persuaded, the new arrival pushed the door open and stood tentatively in the doorway. There was the bearded, dark-haired young man Wyrdha had addressed as ‘master priest.’ His lengthy hair fell over the shoulders of a long, belted coat, and his cloak was over his arm, but, unlike the priestly red of Jher-val’s attire, all his garb was black. He was young, perhaps a year or two over twenty summers, though his dark, neat beard let him appear a little older. He stood awkwardly checking the buttons of his long, black tunic.
“How do, Anthu?” ventured Tyr.
“Ah—Baranthu,” corrected the young man
