Dafin O'Durene of Stoutheart blood

The work-worn locals thought nothing of the Elf and Orc toasting something unsaid in the dim light of the Duff's Mug low fire. The locals had ceased to care about the procession of dandy adventurers poking around after the slaying of the Manticore. The bar-keep, a beetle-browed Dwarf mistress called Dafin, knew otherwise. The Elf and Orc, Patron and Farquu, were the Manticore murderers. It looked to her like they were plotting their next reckless adventure. The Church would not be happy. Fuck the Church.

They feigned dis-interest as Patron made some grand offer and slapped a few worn sheets of vellum on the low table in front of the fire.

The pair were attracting some attention: two Elves (one dressed for some imaginary Royal Court), a foppish Hobbit from Perryton and some traveller from the north that Dafin could not place. All dressed to kill with no fucking idea what to do with their lives. They feigned dis-interest as Patron made some grand offer and slapped a few worn sheets of vellum on the low table in front of the fire. Dafin stomped over to put another log on the fire. The blue-black skinned traveller from the north smelled like a goat.

The Duff had emptied. It was late and after Patron had splashed some coin the group had settled in the hall behind the stables. Dafin kept the fire going in the hall and caught enough chatter to figure they were planning a sortie on Backgammon's Peak a couple of weeks march north of here. Dafin looked around the Duff as she closed up. The low ceiling, dirt floor and old furniture made the place look un-loved. The only decent thing here was the beer. Such a shitty town. Dafin went down the only road in town to the church and prayed for war.

Keeton's Keep with the Duff's Mug and Church of War the only solid buildings in the town.

Dafin could tell Odglin the High Priest took an instant dislike to the 'royal' Elf who came into the church late that night. Their conversation was short. Dafin was sure Oglin was about to cave the Elf's head with his war flail. The Elf left despondent - it looked like she had asked for help. Oglin was soft. Soft from three generations of living off the land. How could Oglin lead the Church of War when he could only make peace? When Orcs and Giants took their land, their mountain trails, and Dwarves ploughed dirt like commoners? Dwarves should live like Dwarves. Dwarves must take the mountains back, relight their forges, rekindle their heritage. Dafin's blood reddened. I was not born to serve piss to common scum. I am Dafin O'Durene of Stoutheart blood.