The doors to the Dunn Wright Inn fling open, as if from a stiff breeze. The deep, quiet sound of drums can be heard, and murmurs percolate through the room, from no one in particular.
"Is it him?" "He's the one, isn't he?" "The Red Hand? Here?"
In steps a half-orc, his skin a tawny yellow, almost shining golden in the lamplight. He wears a fresh new outfit, a brocade of quality in red and gray, and a fresh mantle of gray material with a large red handprint on the back. His hands are gloveless, and dyed a deep red. His cloak floats and whips about, dramatically caught in some phantom gale.
"Ah, Marla, Good to see you! Please, fill my mug!" he calls, a mug flying off the counter and landing in his hand. He sits down at one table, already marked with a similar large crimson handprint, and rests grandly.