There he stands outside of the building he has heard so much about. The frequent letters that he received from his beloved brother were not nearly enough to
describe the magnificence of the city. It may look odd for a dwarf to be enjoying such things, but Stein has interesting ways of doing things. He was at one
time a Dwarf Tank on the battle field, meaning he has large blunt weapons, and extremely heavy armor. He and the other tanks went in the first wave of soldiers
to annihilate the other armies. You would never guess his barbarian past if you saw him now, dressed as if he were a squire of rural England. His hair was
short red and messy. He was thick with muscle from his thick head down to his big wide squashy feet. His dress was very proper.
Most of his enjoyment likely came from his knowing that his brother had lived here. His own flesh and blood had walked these streets many of time before. It was nearly unbearable and mournful. He felt the ties of his heritage tugging at him, in any case liquor was the typical vice for Dwarves. He walked the short distance to the door and slowly cracked it open. It was warmer inside and smelled of good food and firewood just as it had said in the letters. Stein scoped the bar for a place to sit. Although the bar was nearly empty he aimed for the 4th stool from the end on the far side from the door. Just where Brock had sat time and time before. Stein and Brock had dashing similarities in the face, although Brock left his beard and hair a traditional length and braided it, after Stein's last battle he changed his way of living and chose for his now cleaner look.
To the bar he goes. He plops down on the stool and picks a place slightly lower on the back wall to just stare at. He looked very angry, but he was just spacing out...Rather thinking. Trying to imagine his brother sitting there with him. Trying to hear his voice again amongst the low chatter within the tavern.
Most of his enjoyment likely came from his knowing that his brother had lived here. His own flesh and blood had walked these streets many of time before. It was nearly unbearable and mournful. He felt the ties of his heritage tugging at him, in any case liquor was the typical vice for Dwarves. He walked the short distance to the door and slowly cracked it open. It was warmer inside and smelled of good food and firewood just as it had said in the letters. Stein scoped the bar for a place to sit. Although the bar was nearly empty he aimed for the 4th stool from the end on the far side from the door. Just where Brock had sat time and time before. Stein and Brock had dashing similarities in the face, although Brock left his beard and hair a traditional length and braided it, after Stein's last battle he changed his way of living and chose for his now cleaner look.
To the bar he goes. He plops down on the stool and picks a place slightly lower on the back wall to just stare at. He looked very angry, but he was just spacing out...Rather thinking. Trying to imagine his brother sitting there with him. Trying to hear his voice again amongst the low chatter within the tavern.
