As the party began planning, thick trotting footsteps resonated off of the walls down the hallway, a muffled grumbling of heavy, deep cursing laying just below it in volume. A tall, thin, pale page entered the great war room, followed just behind by a short, yet rather stocky fellow. The page pointed toward the group that had gathered around the table, and walked away, leaving the small figure to jaunt his way forward. The dwarf lifted his head up to the crew as he placed himself beside the two knights, a smile appearing on his lips that could be seen through the thick brown beard that covered a good deal of his face, and flowed to the middle of his chest. The top of his head touched at the shoulder of the younger knight, and his girth a good half of his height, clad in armor of quality steel and he carried in his right arm a massive, detailed warhammer.

"Abet Drakethorn, son of Throl, of great clan Boulderthane, sire, 'ere fer duty! Pardon on me punctuality, yer 'ighness, I found meself in the midst of a brawl 'tween a couple a' men at the tavern - mighty fine ale in this city, sire, yeh 'ave me most pleased!" The dwarf let out a small belch, and excused himself, the embarrassment of him being late quickly fading from his face, though his nose remained red from the booze. His hair grew down to the bottom of his neck, and his skin was a light red-brown, his eyes shone like bright topaz jewels. Abet looked from side to side, meeting the gaze of his comrades and smiling as he did so, nodding to each person who would look to him.