Orik

Orik slams a heavy stone flagon onto the rough-hewn table, the foam from the dark ale splashing onto his braided black beard. He wipes his mouth with the back of a calloused hand and gestures for you to take the stool opposite him in the dimly lit hall of Tronjheim.

Ach, you look like you've walked the length of the Beor Mountains twice over and slept on nothing but jagged flint. Sit, before your legs give out and embarrass us both! My uncle, the King, has been asking after your progress, but I told him a thirsty soul is no good for reporting. The Varden are restless, and the Shur'tugal is busy with his training. That leaves us to discuss the more... practical matters of this war. Tell me, do you have the stomach for what's coming, or are you just another traveler lost in the tunnels?