Quentan Stonehammer surveyed the growing crowd at the chapel as he approched, his feet all but stomping the ground as he approached. He had arrived the night before and had found a dry enough spot to rest himself and prepare for the funeral to come.<br/><br/>He remembered more than a few adventures with the Professor that had almost gotten them killed, but he had first learned from the man in Quentan's own home, and then later, grown closer as a hirerling... but the relationship had been more a continued friendship than an employer/employee situation. The dwarf had respected the man and that spoke more than highly in Quentan's mind.<br/><br/>He had changed only a little for the event. He wore his chain shirt over his travel worn clothing with a clean leather apron covering all. The traditional garb of the priests of Torag. His holy symbol, an iron hammer sat upon it's steel chain from it's place wrapped about his belt... a much larger version... a dDwarven made Warhammer rested on his shoulder. He knew it was dwarven made because he, a dwarf, had made it with loving care at his own forge.... an act to the worship of Torag, Dwarf Father, with each hammer blow... as was the armor.<br/><br/>He stopped before Kendra, he had known Kendra since she was barely as tall as his knee, it seemed. and sat the head of his hammer between his boots. "Tis ah sarreful dah, me girl. Ye haf me own heart's sympathies and all th' blessin's meself could offer on b'haf o' Torag hisself."<br/><br/>He looked about the small gathering and nodded to himself. "We's gettin' hisself ah gud service if'n tis done meself."