"Ho there traveller!

Close tight the door and I'll buy you a mug of Barliman's finest.

That's better; there was a terrible draft coming in. Straight from the Blasted Heath, I shouldn't wonder.

Eh? What's that? You'll have to speak up. I used to have brilliant hearing, until you youngsters started shouting in my ears!

What's a dwarf doing here in Bree? The impertinence of some folk!

Nay, nay, don't say you're sorry, there's strange folk about. Heh! And you and I not the least of them eh?

Truth is, I'm not long down from Othrikar, away north in the Downs, along with a few of my kin who are peddlin' their wares to these southerners. Mark our accents though - it's not often you'll be enjoyin' the company of the good dwarves of the Grey Mountains! Times are hard up there, though I 'spose you don't need tellin' that times are hard all over.

My kinhall's seen them all - slush-grubbing orcs that is - marching on south, marching onto Angmar, curse its bitter name, always marching, always clattering about. 'Tis only that they're all marching away from old Mount Gundabad that I left my beautiful grandchildren and daughter back home in Mazarbugund.

Mazarbugund? Well I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it. It's a small place, more of a fort than a city really. A repurposed outpost from the days when we dwarves had many mighty halls of stone, till the dragons and cold wyrms slithered out of whatever foul pits they were breeding in. That's why we repurposed it, you see - the outpost - to try and salvage what we could from the glory days. Plenty to be found up there in the cold, if you're willin' to spend long enough trying to dig it out of the ice, or pry it from the hands of some thieving goblin, Durin take their ears. We had a veritable treasure trove of finds - no, not treasure as some might think of it. All the gold and mithril was stripped long ago, no doubt melted down for armour for some fat goblin with no taste, and no head if I ever meet him! No, the things that orcs don't understand, or deface just for the spite of it. Artefacts, old stone mugs, shards from the grand statues of the Seven that once lined the roads, and that sort of thing.

'Course, we had piles of papers documentin' the finds. More parchment than anything else in old Mazarbugund. Stacked right up to the ceiling. Oh you should have seen our faces when one of the big stacks fell over - it weren't half a mess! Months of careful sorting gone in seconds. That kind of thing either breaks a dwarf or makes him a little mad, I always say, and I ain't broken yet, if you take my meaning.

But I left all that to the younger scribes. It's not an old dwarf's work, let alone an old dwarf with arthritic fingers. You don't want one of them holdin' onto priceless vases!

Hah! That was a joke see. Dwarves don't make anything that won't last a thousand years.

No, I'd just have been haunting the halls if I'd stayed. A holy terror to the youngsters no doubt, but I'd much rather be using my sharp tongue to plague the ruffians who're holding decent folk up on the roads. Go out with a bang as my grandpa used to say, and the more of those filthy orcs I take with me, the better. But don't you be worryin' on account of this old dwarf. I've a few lessons left in me yet, and a lifetime toiling over ancient mysteries has given me the odd trick to throw at the troubles that come stomping in my direction.

Oh, I see you've finished your drink. I'll buy you another for listening to this old dwarf's tale. I'd go and fetch it myself, but, hey, you never know with the shoddy workmanship of men.

And I'd hate to spill good ale."