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“Your hair looks stupid.”
“Your head looks stupid.”
Barwin Butterbur frowned over the bar at the two dwarves squaring off in the common room of the Prancing Pony. They’d started at different tables, but both had knocked over their chairs and they now faced each another across a scant ell of open floor.
The taller dwarf with the head tattoos had been in the Pony before. He was a solid trencherman, even for a dwarf, who could put away four plates of dinner in a sitting. He also carried the biggest axes Butterbur had ever seen and seemed to have a temper, but he'd never caused any trouble, probably because no one in their right mind, dwarf or hobbit or man, would want to fight him.
The other dwarf apparently wasn’t in his right mind. He was shorter and less stocky, clearly no match for the tattooed dwarf, yet he wore a slightly mad grin and showed not a trace of fear.
And his hairstyle was, Butterbur had to agree, if not stupid then certainly unusual.
The tattooed dwarf pulled a huge knife from his belt. “Let me give you a trim. I’ll leave it long enough to braid, if you ask nicely.”
The other was now spinning a knife in his fingers, too, though Butterbur hadn’t seen him produce it. The blade was slender, but looked wickedly sharp. “And I’ll gladly carve that chickenscratch off your scalp.”
“As if you could get close enough to try.” The big dwarf loosened a hand axe from his belt and loomed with impressive menace for someone under five feet tall.
Butterbur noticed a couple of the more nervous patrons get up and sidle out the door. He shifted uneasily. Fights were bad for business.
He’d only taken his eyes off the dwarves for a second, but when he looked back, the smaller dwarf had somehow slipped past the other’s weapons. They stood nose to nose, his slender knife pressed up under the tattooed dwarf’s beard. "Here I am," he taunted.
The big dwarf snarled, released his axe, and grabbed a fistful of that ridiculous hair. Butterbur decided that was enough. He reached for the heavy oak staff that he kept for such occasions and began to move out from behind the bar.
But before he could intervene, a much shorter dwarf stood up and raised his voice. “Stop flirting, lads, you’re scaring the good folk of the inn.”
Then he walked over to the low side of the bar and offered Butterbur an apologetic smile from the midst of his long white beard. “I'm sorry about them. I keep telling my brother to stop messing about and court the lad, but he’s worried about being turned down. Can you imagine! With the way Nori holds a knife to his throat?” The dwarf chuckled fondly and dropped a few coins on the counter. “Well, they’ll get themselves sorted out sooner or later. Two more ales, if you please.”