Ludolf Bohn enjoyed these warmer summer days and evenings, having fought from the warm climes to Estalia to the frozen wastelands of Norsca during his time as a warrior of the Empire. He had fought all manner of the living - from the forces of rival Elector Counts, to Greenskins and even (some said) the Rat-men of Skavenblight - as well as numerous encounters with the forces of undeath. He had seen his own comrades raised up to fight against him, hewing them apart with the very same zweihander blade that now held pride of place on brackets above and behind the bar. Yet running a tavern, along with his wife Hilda and young son Jochen, and the various hired hands of the establishment, was by far the hardest thing he had ever done in his life.

A giant of a man at six-foot and four-inches in height, his pale flesh covered on his face by a great bushy beard of greying gold, he kept a close eye on all his patrons and staff with eyes the same grey as a thunderstorm cloud. Dressed as he was now, in a simple blue tunic and trousers of a brown, he wore a brown apron over it and could often be found simply wiping out the inside of a flagon behind the bar.

Having so many patrons move through the Nag every day, he barely noticed Jeb ([@TJByrum]) as the huntsman made his way past the hired doorman and peacekeeper - an Elf, but not just [i]any[/i] Elf, one of the fabled White Lions of Chrace - and walked toward the bar, before taking a stool and catching the Reiklanders eye.

"Well met, friend.  I'm after room and board."

"Oh yea," grunted the barkeep, taking in the measure of the young man with an experienced eye, one hand moving through his luxurious beard, "we have a few of both, Herr Hochlander. Could you be more specific?"

Before Jebidiah got a chance to reply though another patron took away his attention, a much shorter but heftier visitor, unmistakable as anything but a Dwarf ([@POOHEAD189]) of the mountain holds; they were travellers not uncommon in the Reikland, and Ludolf apologised to Jebidiah and begged his indulgence for a moment.

"Ale. Keep it coming."

Certainly here was a fine specimen of Dwarfish culture and manhood, a longbeard by the looks of him, one who should be accorded respect within his hold...well, he was not in any Dwarf hold, but a Reikland tavern.

"Ah, Master Dawi, I have a fine keg of Zhufbar Ale just waiting to be tapped...for the right price, of course. A rich flavour and dark colour, not an ale to be missed." One hand went to scratch his beard again, those grey eyes never leaving those of Drimbold as he spoke, "perhaps I may suggest a flagon or two of Korben’s Finest? A worthy Dwarfish stout made from pale malt, roasted unmalted barley,
and caramel malt? Two pennies for a pint of ale or one for the beer."