*...enters the room silently and hobbles over to a chair by the fire. He indicates to the pretty serving maid with a finger and a mutter under his breath that she seems to hear and understand, then settles, somewhat roughly into the chair, while she brings him a Dwarven Goldlager, and sets it before him. He smiles beneath his weathered graying beard, a sparkle of mischief in his pale blue eyes, and presses a platinum Orcish Imperial Thaler into her hand, and dismisses her with a low chuckle and a nonchalant wave, and a quick, lecherous, pat on her backside. She is not threatened by the obviously harmless old cripple, but there is something about him, an air of confidence and security that only comes with true power. Leaning back on the chair, he scoops up the heavy crystal tankard of rich, honey brown liquor, with its telltale golden flecks floating within and raises it towards the room before tipping the foamy brew to his lips. Somewhere in the distance, a raven caws at night, an ominous omen, to be sure...*