Ulfbrecht Thragimthal's page

Ulfbrecht mulls for a moment, nodding to himself as he gives an idle tug of his beard. "At last," he mutters. "Fortune affords some mite of hyldu.." He regards the man, this Prestor Lafayer, eyeing his demeanor and foray into drunkenness. 'They breed their god-speakers in strange fashion on the surface.'

"God ge-mót to ye, then, Lafayer - good moot," the dwarf offers. "Speaking plain, seek I your council. Heard have I in the words of the field-ploughers and the fish-liners in my upfæreld from the under-lands that Lafayer is one who marks many tidings. That he hears much and is wise to many a þing in these..ech, realms. Lands. In hope am I that such words are in truth." He looks around, taking note of the gathering in the common room and the priest's proclivity to playing host. "If'n the time is god for words," he adds, hesitantly trying not to intrude too adamantly. "A þing - a matter of great worth to I."

A bit later, after the party has entered the inn..

The door to the inn opens, letting in both the night air and a traveler. A dwarf stands in the doorway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the firelight before he trudges a single step into the common area, pushing the door closed behind him. An expression is made on him both dour and deliberate, that gruff air that comes naturally to many a dwarf, but he seems more expectant or hopeful than annoyed or chagrined. His grey eyes scan the room, their slate color flecked with amber, in a general assessment of these new environs. He wears the dust of the road, the dark hair made darker in some places with sweat and grit lays plastered about his countenance. His beard is kept a mite shorter than others of his ilk, the dense whiskers coming down only to his collarbones. The left side of his face 'twixt jaw and eye is marred by a discolored patch of withered flesh where no hair grows.

His dress is of simple, sturdy gear; thick vestments of mossy green and stony grey. A hooded shoulder mantle lays atop a suit of ring mail, well-struck but soiled with road grime, itself over a quilted backing reinforced by boiled leather and a roughspun tunic, trousers, and heavy boots. Armed, a series of hammers and hand-axe line his belt and a pole arm sporting both a hammer and a spiked head is slung loosely on his back instead of in hand to appease the locals.

He makes for the nearest of folk who look to be in the employ or service of the inn and speaks low to them, his voice heavily accented and an unfamiliar weave of some Dwarven dialect and common . "Hail then, níw-fara. Seek I the āgend of this guest-house...elles-wise, the mann named Prestor. ge-cnáwan he..? ech.. know of him? To mine ears I am told a god-speaker. I've words to make with he."

Hail and well met, intrepid Dwarven ranger here to guide you through any caves and/or dungeons ye may want to delve.

Rolling for gold to get armed and armored: 3d8 ⇒ (2, 2, 2) = 6 x10 = 60 - looks like I'll be traveling light!