BrangarThe tavern room of the Drunken Minotaur Inn buzzes like a beehive filled with laughter and the sweet scent of ale. Brangar raises his head from his tankard, the firelight painting the honeyed glow of the tavern walls on his beard. A cascade of fiery braids, each thick as a badger's tail, captures the dying embers of the day. His ochre eyes, seasoned with countless tales, scan the room. A dice game draws his amusement for a moment, a flicker of a forgotten wager playing on his lips.
His right arm, a canvas etched with swirling tattoos – whispers of battles fought and mountains climbed – rests on the table. Each line holds a story, a secret waiting to be coaxed out with a mug of ale. The map of his weathered face speaks of hardship endured and laughter shared. Though the lines hold the wisdom of a life well-lived, his gaze holds a warmth that rivals the crackling fire.
He lifts his tankard, a hefty weight in his hand, in a silent toast to the lively crowd. Taking a hearty swig, the frothy ale creates a fleeting white mustache that vanishes into the depths of his beard. The rhythmic clinking of mugs resumes, a comforting melody to his ears.
Suddenly, a face across the room catches his eye. An eyebrow, as thick as his braids, shoots up in question. A grin, wide enough to split his beard in two, erupts on his face. It's a smile that could light up a dwarven mine, both genuine and infectious.
His right arm, a canvas etched with swirling tattoos – whispers of battles fought and mountains climbed – rests on the table. Each line holds a story, a secret waiting to be coaxed out with a mug of ale. The map of his weathered face speaks of hardship endured and laughter shared. Though the lines hold the wisdom of a life well-lived, his gaze holds a warmth that rivals the crackling fire.
He lifts his tankard, a hefty weight in his hand, in a silent toast to the lively crowd. Taking a hearty swig, the frothy ale creates a fleeting white mustache that vanishes into the depths of his beard. The rhythmic clinking of mugs resumes, a comforting melody to his ears.
Suddenly, a face across the room catches his eye. An eyebrow, as thick as his braids, shoots up in question. A grin, wide enough to split his beard in two, erupts on his face. It's a smile that could light up a dwarven mine, both genuine and infectious.
Oi! Come over here, would ye!he booms, his voice a gravelly chuckle with a thick dwarven lilt. He raises a tankard high in the air, then dips it low in a beckoning motion towards you.
There's a tale writin' all over yer face, and me beard itches to hear it! Belly up to the bar, and quench yer thirst while ye spin a yarn for Ol' Brangar!
1757
