Velbrik glances out from the barstool where he had been sitting. He mutters to himself in a voice that, despite the words it spills forth, nevertheless holds a pleasant, musical sound to it, "Excellent. Drunks, blowhards, fools, con-men, and sellswords. Just like the old man told me."
Velbrik pulls back his hood to reveal a fair-skinned face and black hair which, in the flickering of the fireplace, holds a hint of very dark green. A miniscule and barely-noticeable birthmark of indefinite shape sits at the back of his jaw, under the right ear. Velbrik is wearing a grey robe over what is obviously heavy leather armor, and a well-stuffed backpack sits propped against his chair, while a longsword, still in its sheath, has been set on the bar to allow him to sit comfortably.
Velbrik addresses himself to Troi and Grak, "Come now, gentlemen. Fighting so soon after just meeting, whether a practice it may be or not, seems ill-advised and speaks of poor manners. More importantly, the good barkeep might not appreciate it - consider how business might be affected when travelers come upon a pair of bloodstained, sword-wielding ruffians beating on each other in front of the door. Not exactly conducive to good business, eh?"
