Floor 8, a pretty nice place if Azecreth said so himself. Which he did, anyway, or else he would not have been saying it now. It was the perfect spot for a person like him, who was too afraid to go fight on the front lines, but too guilty to simply sit back and not help out in any way that he could. If people died because of his inaction, how could he live with himself? That was the realization that he had made after they had found out they were stuck, and the initial chaos of that had died down. 

So while he was afraid of going out to fight and possibly dying, he had done what he could to help out. Ironically, the idea had been inspired by a D&D card no less, a quote about armies and how they operated. So he had become a smith, a supplier of weapons, armor, and equipment. He wasn't the best, not to the level of someone, say, Lisbeth, but he knew what he was doing, and he made a tidy profit. And that was without price gouging either, since he wasn't about to stiff people like that. 

At the moment he was taking a break in one of the bars that dotted the towns on this level, relaxing off the stress of hard work. This place wasn't too busy, he'd say, but then again it wasn't exactly a vacation spot either. It was more of a local favorite, and that was fine by him. At least the PC running the place had the skill to make a good pint when he got around to it, and he could charge a lot for it. And unlike Azecreth himself he had no qualms about overcharging. Bastard.

Taking a sip form his glass, Azecreth looked around as activity flowed around him. Just an average day with nothing to worry about. And that was just the way he liked it.