The night was deep, and silence shrouded the Dwarf Camp.
"Father, have you not rested yet, at such a late hour?"
Marquis Dawson looked up to find his second son, Wells Dawson, walking in.
Wells had a clean and fair face, sans the typically bulbous nose of a dwarf, and his full beard was impeccably groomed. If it wasn't for his height that was limited by his racial traits, he could pass for a dashing young man.
"What brings you here this late?" Marquis Dawson frowned.
He didn't really like his second son, Wells.
He thought Wells was over-indulged and lacked the robustness and resilience characteristic of dwarves, instead getting completely engrossed in a life of debauchery.
Fortunately, the older son was much better and capable of inheriting the family business. Therefore, as far as this younger son was concerned, Marquis Dawson mostly left him to his own devices.
