What is worse than having a Hobgoblin inside your feasting hall? Having several racially divided mercenaries in one place, apparently.

Poor, poor, Alfredo; it had been bad enough with only one sword-for-hire, and a greenskin at that, but he had barely had time to point out all the delicious morsels laid out for him when a Dwarf had joined them. How he had made his way here was completely a mystery to the elderly servant, but he assumed it must be some sort of innate Dwarfen ability of sorts, not that it really mattered all that much. What [b]did[/b] matter was that between getting from one moment to this current moment, Alfredo had very nearly had several severe heart attacks and was currently trying to hold back a apoplectic shock that was violently threatening to overwhelm him.

"I-" he managed to groan from between gritted teeth, one skeletal hand clutching at his rapidly palpitating chest, "I need to...sit down."

A couple of steps backward carried him to one of the many chairs arranged around the table further into the hall, an area that thankfully had not been touched by the violence - not the heavy set Norscan, nor the one-armed Dwarf, or even the suicidal Goblin who seemed to have appeared from nowhere. The food remained in place, as did the furniture, and as those milky eyes looked upon this, and saw that it was good, a calm descended upon the aged servant.

"Please," he coughed as the Dwarf announced his intentions to fillet the Hobgoblin, "he must be alive," a wheeze escaped his lips as he raised a weary arm, as thin as a twig, "will you not all join me here at the table, there is plenty of food for hungry adventurers, non?"

[I]Please[/i] he prayed inwardly [i]please let their eyes be bigger than their...weapons.[/i]

It was at this time that Jan, fresh from a fruitful breakfast of eggs and sausage, and a whole pipe-bowl of Halfling weed, made his way through the ruins and arrived at the keep. Needless to say he was impressed, for he was easily impressed by most dwellings of the larger folk, except [b]even he[/b] could see that it needed some repairs and he was no engineer.

Using his cleaver as a walking stick-cum-crutch, he padded his way along the corridors, eventually coming to a point where he could make out the shape of someone standing in the outer passage; from what he could make out it was female...human...and, dare he think, quite attractive. It took him a moment to stop thinking with his 'cleaver' and decide to make his presence known, walking almost without a sound to within an arms length of the elegantly armoured Tilean.

"Excuse me," came the greeting, his voice oddly bass for such a diminutive figure, "I do believe that I'm meant to be in there, an I can smell food..."

Brushing his way past the woman, now almost completely forgotten in his mind, he ignored the four other sellswords and made straight for the platers and dishes of assorted foodstuffs - as any good Halfling of the Moot would!

Within moments he was face-deep in a haunch of pig, and woe betide anyone who tried to pry him from it.