Droken

Droken sits a bit away from the rest of his party. He is thinking about stuff that bothers him. He decides elves bother him and he doesn’t like them. He thinks they are shiny and smell like flowers and they look too soft and their hair shimmers like cloudless nights after a deep snowfall.

As a dwarf with no mountain Droken hates elves more than he hates Moradin.

He especially hates Starla and her golden skin and her huge blue eyes and her soft touch and her real good healing spells.

Deep in his thinking Droken is startled when the human bard yells from just behind his shoulder, “Hey guys Droken’s drawing elves in the dirt again.”

“No I ain’t,” he says quickly scrubbing the figure he had been sketching in the dirt away with his foot and throwing the short length of stick into the woods. “No I ain’t, neither.”

 

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