Gruff Mc’Nasty of Clan Mc’Nasty was raised on strong ale, stronger opinions, and the ironclad belief that a dwarf’s first duty is to his kin, his boar, and never, under any circumstances, to a watered-down drink. Broad-shouldered, sharp-tongued, and usually wearing the sort of scowl that can sour milk at twenty paces, Gruff spent years roaming from hold to hold with his owl on one shoulder and his staff in hand, earning a reputation as a dependable troubleshooter, a stubborn friend, and a dwarf who could drain a keg faster than he could drain the patience of polite company. Part of his gruffness comes from old clan friction: the Mc’Nastys, like many dwarves, have little respect for arcane magic, and Gruff’s talent for the strange and scholarly left more than a few of his kin treating him like a cracked flagon—still useful, perhaps, but never quite respectable. These days his grand quest is stranger still, for he has inherited a deed to an old windmill and a stretch of tillable land only to discover that no one seems to know where the blasted place actually is. The best lead places it somewhere near ShiningFalls, so Gruff has come searching for his missing inheritance, dreaming of place to call his own, a place where he is respected, work his craft, and a cellar worthy of proper ale storage. In the course of asking too many questions he has also caught wind of the Syndicate, and what should have been a simple hunt for land and comfort is fast becoming exactly the kind of trouble Gruff always seems to find, hopefully there's ale.