Djarin, the dwarf.
It has been three seasons since I bid farewell to the men of the Dale. Many fair folk dwell upon the lake and it was a shame to go. But my errand beckons me and I cannot lay it rest. Should the very riches under the mountain be mine I could not forsake my calling. And so I have wandered, in search of that which would pay my debt. Yet for all of my journeying over many years, I feel no closer to the prize.
It is on this fair day that I enter the shire. I seek my uncle Dwarin. Years ago he settled down and began the operation of The Green Dragon Inn. It is there that I shall rest for a time and perhaps even find some clue that will guide me on my journey. One can only hope for such things though hope has long abandoned me. At the very least I will get to sample some of Dwarin’s brew. Its legend extends beyond the range of even my many travels.
The inn has a different appearance from what I expected. Some dwarvish writing is visible but clearly diminished by time. I spy what appears to be elvish but that tongue has long been lost on me. Perhaps it is to fair a language for this wandering dwarf to learn, but then the common tongue is all I have ever had time to master. And fortunately for me, the sign above the door is clearly written The Green Dragon Inn. Ah, it is a welcome site.
The door creaks open and I wander in. Brushing the dust from my cloak I quickly remove my axes as to not alarm the patrons. Though when in dwarven company such items are much appreciated and often a topic for long discussion, I have found that when among men, elves, and especially hobbits they are often unwelcome dinner guests. I long ago gave up wearing chain mail in favor of more comfortable traveling leathers. Though many an orc has laughed themselves to scorn at the site of an unarmored dwarf, at least I could send them from this world with a humorous thought on their small minds. But, I am weary and must find my uncle. We have much to discuss and I wish to see a familiar face. “Innkeeper! Is the innkeeper about?”
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