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pouring the thick brew with shaky hands.The women folk left, claiming they needed to visit the house of fecal waste.
'ShadowLander!' called a nasal tinged voice from the rear of the room, 'Your type are not welcomed in this acre of the world.' Shortly, a path cleared between the ShadowLander and the owner of the high pitched
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voice.
The voice belonged a squat little Nobbit. He sat with a crooked smile on his smiling face while his hand played with the handle of his jeweled dagger-like sword. On his throat, just above his massive goiter, he openly wore a staff shaped tattoo. Only true herdsmen wore these.
A hush fell over the
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