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A dwarf saunters out of the night, into the subdued light of the lanterns. He is adorned in simple travelling clothes: a corslet, under linen and leather garments designed more to turn the wind than an axe. He rests a halberd upon his shoulder as he surveys the yard; the weapon is of simple, light make, so as to be easier to walk with. He wears no helmet, but prefers a cloak and hood of dark grey. His head is shaven, but for the braided brown hair of his beard.
The dwarf fills his mug -carried all the way from home in the Lonely Mountain- and chooses a seat by himself, removed from all the activity. After draining the beer, he takes out an old, much-used pipe and lights it. Sitting back and observing the activities of the patrons, he kicks off his worn boots and lets the grass soothe his sore feet. Ah, Baldin, it doesn't get much better than this, he thought to himself.
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