Sample Roleplay

*A stocky dwarf with a braided russet-brown beard, one eye patched with crimson leather, polishes a pewter tankard behind the bar.  He looks up as you approach, his remaining eye twinkling like firelight off good whisky.*

“Well now, evening tae ye, lass,” he rumbles, voice thick with the lilt o’ the mountains.  “Name’s Gareth Ironforge, keeper o’ this fine establishment.  Ye look like ye’ve marched a fair few miles an’ nae just for the scenery.  Pull up a stool an’ rest those weary boots.”

*Gareth sets the tankard aside, slides a wooden cup toward you, and eases the keg tap.*

“House special—Dragon’s Breath ale.  Warms the bones, calms the nerves.  First one’s on the house for fresh-faced wanderers, especially those that walk in peerin’ over their shoulder.”

*He nods at the letter you’re gripping.*

“Seems ye’ve a burden more fragile than a dragon egg.  Private word, mayhap?  I’ve a snug back room—no pryin’ ears but the mice, an’ they dinnae gossip half so much as the locals.”

*The dwarf leans in conspiratorially.*

“Speakin’ o’ locals, word ’round Deepwater is a shifty band o’ black-cloaked lads askin’ after folk carryin’ sealed missives.  Came in last night, left no names, paid in minted silvers from Neverfall—new strike, still warm to the touch.  If they’re the shadows doggin’ yer heels, ye’ll be safer under my roof than out on Lantern Street.”

*He straightens, offering a reassuring grin.*

“So, lass—just a drink an’ a hot stew, or shall we step in back an’ talk of letters, strangers, an’ how a one-eyed dwarf might help keep trouble from yer door?”

Gareth Ironforge, a barrel of a dwarf with a neatly braided beard streaked with grey, pauses in the act of polishing a well-worn tankard. His solitary eye, the other patched over with a dark leather circle, narrows slightly as he takes you in. He doesn't miss the way your hood is pulled low, nor the nervous darting of your gaze, or the white-knuckle grip you have on that letter.

"Aye, lass, come in, dinnae stand there like ye've just spied a ghost, or worse, a tax collector!" he rumbles, his voice thick with a Deepwater-hardened Scottish burr. He lets out a dry chuckle, nodding towards his eye patch. "Though I ken a thing or two about seein' things that make ye clutch yer belongings. Lost this wee peeper to a beholder meself, back in me adventurin' days. Nasty buggers, they are."

He leans a bit over the bar, his gruff expression softening just a touch. "Pull up a stool, or find a dark corner if ye'd rather. But ye look like ye've walked a long road, lass, and carried a heavy burden. Dinnae be a stranger. What can old Gareth get ye? A warming ale? A dram o' Goodbarrel's finest to steady those nerves? Or perhaps a bowl o' Elara's hearty stew, fresh off the fire? Smells o' fear ain't good for business, ye ken, but a full belly can ward off a host o' troubles, real or imagined."

Och, come on in out of the damp, lass. No need to be skittish in here.

A burly dwarf with a magnificent, braided red beard shot through with grey stops polishing a hefty stone tankard. He sets it down on the bar with a soft thud. One of his eyes is covered by a simple leather patch, scarred and weathered, but the other, a sharp and surprisingly kind blue, takes you in without judgment.

He leans a bit over the counter, his voice a low, rumbling brogue.

"Ye look like ye've wrestled a troll and lost the coin toss. C'mon now, catch yer breath. The name's Gareth Ironforge." He gestures with a thumb to a stool. "Whatever's chasin' ye, it can't cross the threshold of The Dancing Dragon without my say-so. Now, what can I get for ye? A hot stew to warm the bones? A wee dram of dwarven stout? The first one's on the house for a soul who looks like they need it."

His good eye glances around the room with a practiced, easy sweep, then settles back on you. "Ye're safe here, lass. Have my word on it."

*Gareth leans against the polished oak bar, his one good eye twinkling with warmth beneath a wild tangle of red beard. He sizes you up, but his voice is kind as ever, rolling out in a thick dwarven burr.*

“Well now, lass, ye look like ye’ve wrestled a mountain goat an’ lost! There’s no trouble here but what folk bring in themselves. Pull up a stool, eh? Ale or somethin’ stronger? An’ don’t fret, nobody in The Dragon goes nosin’ in business what don’t want nosed in. Unless ye fancy a pie, that is—I do tend to press those on folk.”

*He glances approvingly at the sealed letter, but doesn’t pry. Instead, Gareth leans a bit closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially.*

“If it’s eyes yer tryin’ to avoid, best sit by the hearth. Folks there are too deep in their tankards to pay much mind. 'Course, if ye need a word of advice, yer in good hands. Had my share o’ mystery in my day.”

*He slides a battered mug down the bar towards you.*

“First one's on the house for newcomers. The Dragon’s got a way o’makin' folk feel safe… if only for a night.”

**Gareth Ironforge:**  
"Ach, lass, dinnae fash—yer safe enough here at The Dancin’ Dragon. Though I’ll warrant that hood’s seen better days… or maybe better sewers." *He chuckles, a gravelly sound like rocks grinding, and taps the wooden eye patch covering his mangled socket.* "Lucky fer ye, one-eyed dwarves ken a thing or two ‘bout skulkin’ an’ bein’ skulked after."  

He leans forward, fingers drumming on the bar beside an ale-stained ledger, and nods at the letter. "That there’s a right fancy seal, mind. Red wax, eh? Lordly folk or fool’s gold, usually. Yer choice if ye want t’ share, but I’ll tell ye this—*" *He jerks his chin toward a corner where a half-drunk wizard argues with a pig-in-a-vest*—"ye’ll not get stabbed takin’ a seat here. Unless the pig’s feelin’ cheeky."  

Gareth grabs a tankard and a flagon of dark ale without waiting, sliding both toward her. "Sit. Eat. Ye’ve the look o’ folk who’ve been runnin’ a while. Whate’er’s in that letter’s got claws, I’d bet me beard. So… what’s yer poison? Food, coin fer news, or neither… an’ just scope o’ auld Ironforge’s advice?"  

*He winks his good eye, though the gesture mostly makes him look more like a cabbaged turnip than a conspirator.*

*polishes a mug with a cloth while observing you with his good eye, the other covered by a leather patch*

"Aye now, lass, ye look like a wee mouse that's seen too many cats," *he says in a deep, gravelly Scottish brogue, leaning on the bar.* "Come, sit yerself down. The Dragon's got strong walls an' stronger ale - whatever's got yer knickers in a twist can wait fer a proper drink."

*He thunks a tankard of dark, frothy ale in front of you*

"That there's Ironforge Special - aged in me own cellars fer twelve months. Cost ye three silver, but the first one's on the house fer newcomers." *He lowers his voice,* "An' if ye're watchin' yer back, I've got a private booth near the hearth what's got a clear view o' both doors." 

*Jerks his bearded chin toward the letter in your hands* 
"Course, if ye'd rather skip the pleasantries, I've seen more mysterious letters than me own beard has hairs. But we'd be needin' somethin' stronger than ale fer that sort o' talk..."

Och, laddie or lassie, ye've come tae the right place fer a wee dram an' a warm welcome! I glance up frae polishin' a mug, eyein' ye wi' a mix o' curiosity an' caution. My left eye's a wee bit...missing, courtesy o' a nasty run-in wi' a beholder, but the right one's still sharp as a razor. "What can I get ye, young one?" I ask, wipin' doon the bar wi' a dirty rag.

I nod towards the corner o' the tavern, where a fire's cracklin' an' the locals are gathered, swappin' stories an' enjoyin' a pint or twae. "Ye're no' from aroond here, are ye? We've no' seen ye in Deepwater afore. What's yer business?" I ask, me voice low an' friendly, but wi' a hint o' inquiry.

As ye look aroond, ye'll notice a few...interesting characters in the tavern. There's a burly halfling in the corner, drinkin' alone an' keepin' tae himsel'. A group o' city guards are playin' dice neart the fire, laughin' an' carryin' on. An' a cloaked figure sits at the bar, nursin' a mug o' ale, keepin' a weather eye on ye. Ah, but dinnae ye worry, The Dancing Dragon's a safe haven fer the most part. Just be careful what ye say tae strangers, aye?

Now, what's wi' the letter? Is that a message frae someone ye ken? An' what's wi' the hood? Ye're no' tryin' tae sneak in, are ye? I raise an eyebrow, intrigued.

(You feel a single keen eye studying your movements as you approach the bar. Behind the polished oak counter stands Gareth Ironforge, cleaning a tankard with a linen cloth. He sets it down with a *thump*, revealing a network of scars crossing his knuckles.) 

"Well now! Either that cloak's leakin' rain, lass, or ye've carried the storm inside with ye," Gareth rumbles, his voice like gravel rolling downhill. He gestures to a sturdy stool. "Sit yerself down. Ye've got the look o' someone who's been chased by more than saddle sores." 

(His beard, braided with iron beads, trembles as he speaks. You notice him casually lift a hammer from below the counter—not threateningly, but familiarly, like an old friend.)

**Gareth Ironforge**: (He slaps a heavily calloused hand on the bar, his deep voice rumbling like a mountain underfoot, though his one eye twitches with the memory of a beholder’s gaze. A silver prosthetic eye glints in the firelight, crafted with the same precision as the dwarven axes in his shop.)  

“Aye, lass, you’ve the look of someone with secrets to keep,” he grunts, his Scottish brogue thick as a winters’ brew. “The wind’s whisperin’ tales o’ shadowy figures skulkin’ 'round the docks—best ye keep yer head low, but no lower than the ale. That letter? Better unseal it in the back, where the clatter o’ mugs and the hum o’ the hearth dinnae draw too many eyes. The blacksmith’s been askin’ after ye, mind ye—said he’d ‘do the honor’ o’ helpin’ with the delivery if ye’d ne’er trust a stranger with yer troubles.”  

He leans in, squinting at the letter with his good eye. “Aye, an’ if ye’re bein’ followed, I ken a few ways to make 'em think ye’re a mite less interesting than ye are. But dinnae let that steel ye—ye’ve the same fire in ye as the ones who braved the *Crimson Wastes*.”  

Gareth gestures to a worn wooden stool behind the bar, its surface scarred from a hundred battles. “Come on, lass. A dram o’ firewhiskey and a tale o’ why the *Ironclad* is sailin’ south with a cargo o’ suspicious-looking gemstones? Or ye’d rather keep yer secrets close to yer chest—eh? I’llnae pry, but I’ve a feeling ye’re in for a storm.”

*looks up from polishing a mug with my good eye, the other covered by a worn leather patch*

Och, well now! Look what the road's dragged in! Don't ye worry lass, keep that hood up if it makes ye feel safer - plenty of folk come through these doors seekin' a bit of anonymity with their ale.

*leans in closer, lowering my voice while continuing to clean glasses*

Name's Gareth Ironforge, and this here's me establishment. Been keepin' travelers safe and fed for nigh on fifteen years now. That letter ye're clutchin' so tight - looks important. And by the way yer eyes keep dartin' to the door, I'd wager someone's got ye spooked proper.

*slides a clean mug across the bar*

How about ye start with somethin' to warm yer bones? Got fresh mutton stew that'll put some color back in those pale cheeks. And if ye need a quiet corner to... conduct business... booth in the back's nice and shadowy. Old adventurer's instincts tell me ye might be needin' more than just food and drink tonight, eh?

*gives a knowing wink with my good eye*

What'll it be then, lass?

Gareth Ironforge: *I wipe down the bar with a grubby cloth, me single eye glintin' under the dim lantern light as I spot ye approachin'. With a hearty chuckle, I lean forward, me voice rollin' like thunder over the highlands.* Och, aye, lass! Welcome to The Dancin' Dragon. Ye look like ye've just wrestled a troll and lost the wee scuffle. Dinnae fret—I've seen my share o' shifty eyes in this ol' den. Pull up a stool and set yer worries down for a tick. What's troublin' ye? Need a pint o' me finest ale to steady yer nerves, or perhaps ye've got a tale to share? I'm Gareth Ironforge, keeper o' this fine establishment, and I ken a thing or two about dodgy strangers and sealed letters. *I give ye a knowing wink, me scarred face breakin' into a warm, gap-toothed grin.*