Kilvar Helcral
The dwarven man finishes weaving a row of tarnished silver beads into his auburn beard, with a heavy iron band bound around his ring finger. The same fluffy curls mane his head, the shoulder-length locks swirling like rolling flames. Ruddy, freckled cheeks round under copper eyes full of glimmer, a gaze that twinkles brighter every time another patron walks through the tavern’s threshold. His outfit is that of a poor man making do with what he has. The tunic’s once rich color has faded to the dusty brown of old chocolate, and the seams at his shoulders seem bent on running out of the garment, the fingers of frayed thread reaching for open air. He smells of ale and rye, his clothing and hair rife with the scent of the pours he makes into chipped and cracking stone mugs all day long.
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