| As evening drew on, the sun lowered itself over the forest where I was born. The dwarf’s cart had stopped, and he was seated on the edge of his cart, a stern-faced elf sitting beside him, answering the questions of the remainder of the thinning crowd. I knew I was going, that I wanted to go. But I had no one to say good-bye to, so I had two days to wait. So it’s back to the pub.
I padded off, and soon found a closed shop where I could go back on two legs without drawing attention. As I did (third change today – it’s disorienting after so long) my head cleared, the ale from having burned away with my quickened jackal heartbeat. I adjust my collar, pull my fingers through my short shock of hair, and headed into the Salty Mug for another pint.
It’s easy to be alone in the city. Most people aren’t interested in someone quiet, and in a city that is mostly dwarves I know it is easy enough to keep to myself. I work my way to a small table, and pull one of the two seats out, my back to the rest of the crowd.
There’s an excitement in the pub, with small groups talking about the impending threat, and the possibility of adventure. At the surrounding tables, though, it doesn’t take long for enthusiasm to give way to uncertainty and hesitancy. In the Salty Mug, there’s one patron who stands almost two feet above the dwarves that fill the place. He attracts attention. It’s a quick tussle, and he’s quickly disarmed three of them. Can handle himself, well. But it’s obvious why they were provoked. He looks like an orc, but even from here I can smell the human in him.
Victorious, he challenges the assembled crowd, "Nobody here seen an 'alf-orc before?" Of course. But what’s he doing here? He must know a place like this will be trouble.
As the silence he has created begins to be broken by the starts of whispered conversations, I speak up, calling to him. "You'll get yourself killed if you keep that up. Why don't you have a seat, and have an ale instead?" | 
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