4AM, just as every morning before the first light cracked, Arkaide stood from his sitting, blinkless sleep. He pulled the weighty meteor hammer his pack and swung it tightly, wrapping it around himself like a garment. even for his small size, arcade had huge, thick limbs and squared fists. handling the simple, yet incredibly unwieldy weapon was becoming second nature to him.
At home, his typical ritual at this time in the morning meant scavenging the rubbish heap. Dwarves worked at all hours, often oblivious of the common circadian cycles of surface dwellers until the sun forces a routine schedule. His clan would take heavy hooked chains and catchpoles, grabbing whatever seemingly valuable items the had been dumped in the night. If something looks like it could potentially be animated under what was known as the “creative pile” or where the bad constructs were typically dumped, often groups of oreads would work together to salvage these in a safe capacity.
Arkaides daily training routine replaced his scavenging runs. He walked to an empty, dusty part of the property and began two wheel the hammer around. The metal head hit the dirt in thick thuds. We was getting better at using it, and he knew it. He used a horseshoe stake to practice his low pulled that would wrap around feet. Sharp, solid yanks would choke the chain tight before it even finished wrapping around the base.
“Why you do that?” The carriage attendant called to Arkaide. He had been there a while, and the oread had paid him no mind. Many people watched Arkaide on a regular basis in curiosity. He was used to it, and had found that waiting for them to ask questions caused the least amount of ruckus. Arkaide glanced at him with his big, onyx orbs, blinking solemnly in recognition before unwrapping the chain from the pole with a flinging jerk, returning the weighted mace head to his hands.
“Do what?” Arkaide replied. with a suddenly drop of the weight, he swung his arm back, the centrifugal force shot the ball up into the air, and Arkaide brought it down in front of him, slamming near the middle of a little X he had marked in the ground. Dirt few into the air into a cloud of dust around him.
The carriage driver spat a wad of tobacco spit out into the rose bushes, the pointed to him with a whirling finger. “I see yer training, but why that funny chain-ball-thing?”
Arkaide looked at the meteor hammer, whipping it back up into his hand. Funny? Not sure what was funny about it, other than that most people didn’t use meteor hammers. He considered telling the man about his heritage, about how these devices kept his people safe, but The oread knew that people often did not have that patience of his brethren, a culture that took several hours to tell simple stories. The correct solution that satisfied the incurious mind of the common man was a non-committal answer. “Why not?”
The man shrugged, predictably satisfied with the answer, and wandered off, his simple curiosity sated. Arkaide frowned. So few people, especially in Ustalov, were like the professor. He returned to his practicing. It wouldn’t be until about 7AM that the dust cloud around him would finally settle.