"I was a great disappointment to my Dad," the dwarf slopped dark beer from his tankard that dribbled down his beard and onto the counter, which had been badly treated by messy drinkers for many decades by the look of it. Nearby the bartender wiped at ancient stains with a filthy rag half listening to the poor sot's drunken monolog and nodding every few minutes to assure his only customer that he was paying attention. It was late and rainy outside. Normally the tavern would be closed by now, but the dwarf kept putting silver coins on the scarred wood, and as long as the money was flowing, the place would stay open and the barkeeper would pretend to listen.

From time to time he did indeed look at the rambling drunk, assessing whether he was mad or just pathetic. To outward appearances, he was a young dwarf, perhaps fifty or sixty years old, his beard dark and curly, his face unlined, his back straight, his eyes clear. Unlike many dwarfs the bartender had met, this fellow had no noticeable scars and the weapons he carried looked new and unused as well. Which went along with the tale of misery he was pouring out on unsympathetic ears.

"My brother Darabelin – he was a warrior," the dwarf nodded vigorously. "Dad always told me I should be like him. 'Us Bristlebeard's have a reputation,' he'd say. 'We're tough and hard. Strike first and ask questions later,' that's how he wanted me to be. Like Darabelin. But I wasn't. I was soft and no good. Not to him anyway."

He swilled down the last of his tankard and fished another florin out of an inner pocket, placing it down on the oak board with great care. The bartender wondered idly how many more coins might be in that inner pocket and if the young dwarf, by his own admission not a warrior, was drunk enough to risk knocking him on the head with the heavy club he had under the bar. Still, while he might be a poor fighter by dwarven standards, he nevertheless looked as if he knew how to handle the heavy mace at his belt, and dwarfs were notoriously hard-headed. Best wait a bit and see how the evening went, he decided, pulling another foaming jack of the ordinary ale.

"I liked the mining side of things," the dwarf declared with a surge of self-importance. "I was good at that, too. Could follow a seam of coal or sniff out ore deposits, get the rigs working again when they broke down, smelt the gold and silver, hammer the iron to make it true. That was what I liked. Plenty of call for it too when I was a young fellow. We were at peace then and making money by selling what we mined and what we made.

"Then the war came. Not much of a war, really. No one's even heard of it around here – but them orcs was determined to kill us all, and my brother was at the front of every battle. Dad fair burst his buttons with pride over that. 'Til he looked at me, hiding in the back ranks.

"And when it was over, we survived, but the business had all gone away. The orcs had killed the locals and made everyone scared of using the high passes. My brother was dead, in one of the last battles, and Dad threw me out. 'Go and learn to be a real dwarf!' he said. 'Learn to fight. Learn to be brave. Make a name for yourself. And don't come back until I can be as proud of you as I am of Darabelin!'"

The dwarf sighed loudly and drained the tankard at a single swallow.

"So, here I am, looking for adventure. Looking for a company that needs a fighter. Anyone you know who needs someone like me?" he asked the bartender.