As the tortle and the human speak, an elf enters the establishment. He dips down a little through the doorway, a few inches taller than the doorway meant for people of dwarvish height, but is able to stand fully once inside with the high ceiling of the common room. He seems to take a look around, a parchment held in his hand. He has almost white blonde hair that sweeps around his pointed ears. Sharp light blue eyes set on a perfectly sculpted face with a narrow chin,high cheeks, and almond shaped eyes. He wears a tunic of deep maroon, like fine red wine, and black pants. His clothing is refined as his stance,shoulders straightened and look haughty.<br/><br/><strong>DM: As per common knowledge of the Fire Isles, you know that while Dul Kuldor lies on this side of the island, the other side is populated by a vineyard where an elf known as Lord Frostspear grows grapes in the volcanic soil. Frostspear wine is known all over the world and is the best wine anyone can get their hands on. </strong><br/><br/>Clearing his throat, the blonde elf begins to speak. "To whoever this may concern," he begins, unrolling the parchment and reading from the paper. His tone is bored and unimpressed by the stock he sees before him. "The Lord Frostspear is offering a reward to any who will help him with retrieving his beloved Shambling Mound who once guarded the vineyard but has gotten loose. Reward money is negotiable and the Mound is not to be killed," he sighs, rolling up the scroll again.<br/><br/>The remaining dwarf patrons, those who even bothered to look up, shrug and resume their previous activities, some muttering things about 'fucking elves' under their breaths.