(This post takes place at the base of the mountain, in a run-down tavern. This is where all our first posts will take place ^_^)

The cold winter air brushed through the entire tavern, like a needle in the skin of a dwarf. The Erod-Annon beckoned travelers to come near, almost as if it was howling a long, beckoning cry. The tavern smelt of stale mead and rotting corpse; something that this very orc had grown fond of over the years. Rodents scuttled along the wooden floorboards, jumping at any movement besides their own. The walls were decked with many poorly wall-hangings, some of animals: others of people and food. Many of them were barely hanging, held only by a thin rope, connected to an iron nail that was plunged poorly into the wall.

The floor was full of wretched holes and cracks, probably created by fights and brawls. Despite the shabby interior of the Dancing Diamond Tavern, it was overall a friendly place to be. The ale it produced was a once-in-a-lifetime thing, and tasted as if it was brewed by angels. The bartender was always friendly: and would always help someone if they were in need. The service at the Dancing Diamond was always reliable, and you’d always be served only moments after you order.

Azhgul was a very consistent customer here, and would always visit the Tavern when he was passing or nearby. He would also come here if he was depressed or alone, usually too get intoxicated and sleep in the back room. Though he was not troubled or sad now, he was here only for the friendly atmosphere and people.

“’and datz how doze’ skull-stretcher gotz dere namez!” Azhul finished, slurred from behind his fifth Ale, his voice drawling out as he spoke. The three humans and one dwarf surrounding him all cheered and clapped in respect: he had just told them his whole family history and a quarter of Azhguls life. It was obvious that they were all drunk off their minds, so probably did not take in half that information they just received. The orcs filfthy cloak hung loosely over his shoulders, its hood covering the most-part of his green-skinned face. His staff rested against the wooden chair, the silver band gleaming in the shafts of light which protruded from the large gaps in the wooden ceiling.

“So yo’ guyzez, what’s been ‘appenin nowadays?” He slurred between small burps, his lips touching with the brim of the wooden tankard. “Eh, nothin’ much, exploring n dat..” The dwarf burped, dribbling some ale into his briskly beard.

“Though me heard recentl’ that dere be some of ‘dem killers on the loose! Those treacherous thieves!” He burped, slurping the remainder of his ale into his stubby throat. “Right down ‘da hatch!” He laughed, nearly collapsing from his small stool.
“You said murderers? Those people who kill?” The orc slurred, his hand nearly colliding with a blunt knife as his hand slammed onto the table. “Ye’, dats what I said! Look, dere’z a big flyer over there!” The dwarf gestured behind him, to a large flyer that was held against the wall with iron nails: like most things in this tavern.

“Best be goinz, bye!” And with that the orc slammed his gold (for the ale) on the table and left: his boots treading heavily on the thin floorboards. His only thoughts now were to read this flyer and see what it contained. Perhaps there would be a reward to reap from this, and if there was: Azhgul intended on collecting.

The Dancing Diamond Tavern, it was called. Situated on the outskirts of Ondolond, the great Ered-Annon mountains loomed over it like some colossal giant, watching over the many patrons of the pub. Here, one could learn that you should not judge a book by it's cover, for though the overall appearance of the tavern was that of a run-down, unpleasant establishment, the people within were all good-natured, cheery folk. The serving men and women were efficient in their job, providing superb service to the customers. Despite it's stench, it had earned a good reputation amongst the people. Perhaps this was why a young mercenary had decided to pay a visit.

Lyon Camaris was, as usual, sitting alone. A half-empty mug sat on the table before him, but he was paying it no attention. By all appearances, he wasn't even awake. His deep-set eyes were closed, and his breathing had slowed. A hand had dropped down to his side next to his array of weapons, and the limb had apparently gone limp. Yes, the mercenary was very good at feigning sleep. For he was not truly sleeping. In truth, he was doing what he did every time he visited a pub of some sort. He was listening. Listening for news, listening for a potential job opportunity. As a mercenary, you had to learn how to find work, and after two years of practice, Lyon had become quite skilled at it.

At the moment, however, it was difficult to hear anything. A semi-drunk orc was nearby, going on about some silly story with that distracting accent that all of their race possessed. Lyon found that every time he attempted to eavesdrop on a conversation across the room, the orc's voice kept cutting in, causing him no small amount of frustration. He was half-tempted to confront the thing, but refrained. He knew all too well that it was folly to anger an orc. One of his arms had been broken in a skirmish with one once, and ever since Lyon had done his best to avoid fights with them. They were dangerous foes, driven from within with burning energy and a passion for battle that humans (and half-humans, in his case) could never hope to match.

The word "thieves" floating over to the mercenary's ears from the table at which the orc sat caused Lyon to look over towards them. There was an infestation of thieves nearby? Sounded like the kind of thing a mercenary could make money off of. Perfect. Leaping up, he walked over to the poster that he had heard the dwarf speak of. It was a simple thing, drawn on old, stale paper. But it's message was clear. According to what he read, a band of thieves were hanging about the mountains, causing trouble for all that passed. Knights and soldiers had been sent to wipe them out, but no word had yet returned from the men. All of this, Lyon skimmed over with casual, uncaring eyes. But when he saw a rather large number on the bottom of the flyer, he grinned.

Looked like he had a job.