Grick

The air hung thick with the scent of spilled ale, sweat, and desperation – the standard aroma of the Rusty Flagon. Dwarves roared songs of questionable hygiene, humans argued loudly over dice rolls that likely cheated even the gods, and in a shadowed corner, a halfling attempted (and spectacularly failed) to pickpocket a particularly grumpy-looking orc. It was, in short, a perfectly normal Tuesday night.