Splits of leather, replacement hilts and blades, rivets and metal scraps are jumbled together in crates. A box of broken shields, armor and weapons sits in one relatively clean corner. Two barrels with a plank of wood across them serve as a makeshift counter. In the back of the small lean-to, a scruffy-looking Elf with tobacco-stained teeth and fingers works at his trade.
You also see a large sack, a large sack, Diwitt and a sign.


Glancing out of the lean-to, Diwitt whistles at a shapely young woman passing by.

Waving, Diwitt says, "Tonight honey, my place!" She looks at him as he flashes his yellow-toothed leer and laughs outright before replying, "Not even in your dreams!"

Diwitt looks around then mutters to himself, "Darn thieves stole my bucket!"


OOC: Seems the bucket has gone missing somehow.

~~~
True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.

Diwitt seems happier and so are we, thanks much.

===
My spathas at hand,
From the ashes I rise,
With resolve in my heart,
And fire in my eyes.