[center][h2][color=999999]Thurin Stoutarm[/color][/h2][/center]

The sturdy Dwarf acknowledged the incoming town of Angfort with a nod, satisfied this must be the place. His pony and he seemed road weary, but strong. Their encampment in the fortunate cave gave them both a renewed vigor, and it was only a few days before they made it to this odd town of men. He let out a long breath through his beard, and stomped down into the town proper. His cloak, beard, and beast were covered in dirt and snow, but as usual, another short rest and they'd be fine to go yet again. 

These people had seen better days, he noted. Or perhaps, they had not. Perhaps it was always this dreary here. "[color=999999]I've seen more cheer in a graveyard.[/color]" he muttered, striding with a purpose toward the town center. He had his pendant out and ready, uncaring whether friend or foe saw it. He was of Durin's folk, and was not afraid of knives in the dark. The only thing that could quake Thurin was perhaps the shadow and flame he had seen glimpses of in Moria. 

He spat on the ground when he saw the company he'd be in for. A Halfling, which wasn't a bad deal. He'd met the infamous Biblo Baggins briefly many many years ago. Learned a song or two from him. If all of his folk shared his quality, he wouldn't mind. Twas the two Elves that had him spittin'. He wouldn't judge them unfairly off the bat, but it was an involuntary reaction. He should have known they'd be here, seeing as there was Elvish script in the letter. The last was two men. One lanky, looking akin to a local. The other a hard man Thurin would watch carefully. "[color=999999]So, who here called me to this northern bastion and why should I stick around? If there is a quest, I'd have the one who called me to heed my question.[/color]"