Tundrik
Tundrik is a dwarf showing his many years - his face is as wrinkled as crumpled parchment and his long hair and thick beard a blend of silver and white. Most of the scars on his face and arms are so old they are almost indistinguishable from his weathered skin, but but that does not detract from his infectiously warm smile and mischievous twinkling eyes. Despite a gruff countenance, he is as warm and likeable as any of his kind, fond, of course, of a pot of cold ale but equally enamoured with spiced wine or a cider, especially when served with cheese or a pastry.
While his fingers are no longer as deft as they used to be, he is a skilled artisan and competent smith, with gnarled and blistered hands being sure signs that he has never shied from hard labour. Tundrik will cheerfully regale a willing listener equally with tales of time spent swinging a pickaxe or a battle axe, and it seems there is hardly a land in all of western Faerûn where he is not done one or the other.
In fact, there seems to be few subjects he does not know something of. His gaze is quick and direct, suggesting that little escapes his notice and behind it sits a sharp and intuitive intellect that belies his apparent age.
Before Leilon was overrun, Tundrik worked as a supervisor in the mines but, with some blaming the dwarven miners for unleashing the evil that befell the town, those of his kind who survived have since moved away and he is the only dwarf remaining.
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