"Och, as if that kobold's word was any good to me," the silver beared dwarf grumbles. "You're lucky Ozzie here has vouched for ya, or else we wouldn't be bringing a scrawny one like yourself along!"<br/><br/>Ozdimir just grins. "What Gram here means is welcome aboard."<br/><br/>"Right. Gram Cleavestone. And don't you forget it. My cousins and I are the meanest, roughest traders to ever trek through these parts. See this?" He slams a wide dagger -- more like a cleaver than a knife -- into the counter. The myconid barman winces, but does not protest. The blade is a bright, gleaming silver, though it has a notable swirling purple stain across it. "Sunk this into the head of a mind flayer when he tried to get at me brain. Still got bits of his smeared on it! HAHAHAHA!"<br/><br/>The brown bearded dwarf quietly grunts with a slight tone of amusement.<br/><br/>Ozdimir tries to veer talk back onto a less grisly subject. "I say, Zarna, I don't suppose you'd be interested in a drink." He raises his glass.