"Quit whining ye dolt," the Longbeard said. The woman paid him little heed, though her scream at the retort turned into a pitiful whimper. Drimbold wondered how weak the manling folk were if they had never seen severed Grobi heads. Even Dwarf women would not blanch at such a sight, instead they would praise Valya and Grungni that there were three less Goblins tainting the world. The image of his wife Volga caused his mood to sour even more, and he continued on despite the stares he received from the still dripping heads that hung from his back. 

Once he was paid the bounties for the slain Goblins (with typical shoddy manling coins to boot!), he decided he needed a place to find some beer or ale. Mead even, if there wasn't either of the other two to be found in this hamlet of a town. Stomping through the dirt streets, the armored elder was probably the most heavily armed person in town by the looks of these farmers and backwater merchants. The mercenary or two he saw seemed more like hired killers than actual soldiers. 

He found the Limping Nag after asking a particularly fat man where the tavern was, and soon the inhabitants of the establishment felt a cool breeze waft and the sound of the door being shoved open. It revealed a Dwarf clad in Gromril, with an aged, grim visage and scarred skin where he wasn't covered in cloth or mail. His greying beard almost brushed the floor, and would have if it weren't for the bronze ringlets keeping it tied. 

He smelled the air, getting a whiff of piss poor ale and sweaty manlings. However, there was a flowery stench he could not ignore. "I smell Elgi." He muttered, his eyes scanning the room until they fell upon Galadred. His jaw involuntarily clenched, only for him to stop short. If he caused a brawl here, they wouldn't serve him ale, piss poor though it be. With a few choice words of Khazalid, he made his way over to the bar. 

"Ale. Keep it coming."