The fire crackled within the hearth, warm tendrils of smoke rising to mingle with the cold night air. Gromble Ironfist, his grey beard falling like a silken curtain to his knees, wrapped his withered hands around the wooden mug, feeling the heat seep into his bones. "Aye, 'tis a good fire," he muttered to himself, "Warms even an old dwarf's bones on a chill night like this."

He took a long sip of the spiced ale, savoring the burn as it slid down his gullet. The exposed brick and ancient beams of his cottage seemed to close in around him, a familiar embrace. "In my youth," Gromble mused aloud, "I would have sought adventure, glory, riches..." His chuckle was a low, snarling sound. "But now, at my age, I find those comforts right here - a warm fire, a full belly, and a quiet mind."