Raltar, fresh from his own adventures, watches the man crash into the tavern, a look of hastened anxiety on his face. If the arrow protruding from his shoulder wasn’t evidence enough that this man was obviously under attack, his mannerisms and look would have given it away. When he sees the man perform a bit of his own ‘first aid’ on his wound, Raltar grumbles, “Humans, hmph!”

Raltar walks over to the man and says, “That’ll ne’r heal if ya keep doin that! ‘ere, lemme look.”

He steps towards him, hands extended as if he is about to grab his shoulder. His plate and chain mixture of armor, still dirty from his latest adventure, fit tightly across his dwarven chest, his beard was matted with dirt and blood and was badly in need of a washing. His mace was slung on his right hip and his cross bow on the left, his large steel shield rested on his back.

“I dunna care who has a grudge against ya, tis obvious ta me ya need healin’.” The dwarf laid his hands on Anto’s shoulder and whispered a prayer to his gods. Anto felt the warm rush of healing sweep through his shoulder and down into his body, his wound completely gone.

“The name’s Raltar Ironhammer o’ Clan Ironhammer.” The dwarf grasped Anto’s hand in his and gave it a firm shake. “I ain’t from ‘round these parts an’ I got little use fer the local politics. Gimme a trusty mace ‘n shield on the field o’ battle anyday!” With the last comment, Raltar looks down at his own state of disarray. He takes a step back and says, “Pardon the look, I jus’ came from a kobby slaughter in the Waterworks an’ I ain’t had a chance ta tidy up yet.”

Raltar noticed the halfling’s entrance…who wouldn’t have? If the fire red hair and rapier too big for her frame weren’t oddities enough, her shrill voice piercing through the noise of the tavern like a razor sharp dagger would have gotten anyone’s attention.

Leaning in towards Anto, Raltar whispers, “Me thinks we gots an audience, eh?” The tone in his voice was more playful than concerned, a smile cracking the hardenend features of his face. He dropped his shield and pack on the floor and hoisted himself into a chair beside Anto. “Watch this.”

Calling out to the halfing, Raltar says, “Wench! Bring us 2 flaggons o’ yer best dwarven spirits. Oh, an’ bring me a bucket o’ warm water an’ some towels.”

Raltar wrinkles his nose as the elf approaches the table. His one good eye squinting at her; a patch covered his scarred left eye. “I see that, like me, ya’ve been in the sewers killin’ kobbys. An’, like me, ya need a bath…ya stink!” The dwarf laughed a little and then looked towards the Halfling who was still at the bar. He grumbles, “Where’s my warm water? An’ don’ ferget the towels…or my drinks!”

Focusing his mono-gaze back to the elf he says, “Looks like ya got yerself a nasty scratch there. Ya mind if I ‘ave a look?” Without waiting for an answer Raltar slips off his chair and steps up to meet the rogue. As he looks over her wound he says, “I know yew, yer Whisp ain’t ya? I ‘ear a lot about yew from a mutual frien’.”

The dwarf cups his hands over Whisp’s injury and speaks aloud in a foreign tongue. It sounds almost like the dwarven language spoken in these lands, but it is very different as well. A gentle glow emits from his hands and Whisp feels the pain and discomfort wash away as her wound heals over.

“There now, ain’t that better?” Raltar grasps Whisp’s hand in his own and, giving it a firm shake, says, “Raltar Ironhammer o’ Clan Ironhammer, at yer service, Primarch.” He steps back and offers up a militaristic salute after which he returns to his seat. He motions to an empty chair and waits for Whisp’s response.