They called him Lord

[Lothlion]

They called him “Lord” Lothlion though no one remembered if the title was used in jest or if he was a scion of a Noble family. Many thought the later, blaming his strange behavior on the thin blood common in the Nobility from too many marriages between distant (and sometimes not so distant) families. Wherever the title came from, Lothlion had never said nor did he object to its use.

It was a spring day 10 years before when he had suddenly appeared in the abandoned cottage on the outskirts of the town. Over the next few days he was seen scrounging stones and metal from trash discarded by others. Several people went to meet him and all came back bearing the same story: The Dwarf is… unusual. His answers to their questions were short and terse, spoken in a mumble that made him hard to understand. What could be drawn from these encounters was that he was building a forge and that he was a smith.

A week after his arrival the glow of a fire could be seen in the in the windows of the little stone hovel for the first time. Now ten years later, he is a fixture in the town. Peasant wives would find themselves next to local Lordlings when they brought their pots to him to mend. And all were treated alike in his ever-glazed eyes as he mumbled a day for the patron to return.

Despite the fact that his work was as fine as anyone in the county could produce, be it pot or helm, many stormed out of his door swearing never to return. The story is told of the Lord who grabbed him and tried to drag him away from the forge so he could be served… and of Lothlion’s nigh hysterical screaming. Only the Lord’s retainers could prevent murder when the Dwarf picked up a recently repaired axe and began wailing at the Lord. When the local landowner came to arrest him, he refused to move until the blade he was tempering had cooled. He spent 2 months in a damp cell before being released and returning to his forge. He never mentioned the incident again.

Accepted by the townsfolk for what he is, he can be found in his forge or in the hills mining ore in any weather. The only person who he speaks with regularly is the scullery maid at the local tavern since they send over meals in return for whatever services they need. On an average day a person who ducked to enter his door might find him stoking the fire, mumbling what sounds like a chant under his breath or placing a razor’s edge on a battle-dulled sword while singing a song with lyrics none understood.