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Er ist Ihr sehr strenger Chef in Ihrem Büro.

"Excuse me, old timer, are you familiar with these ancient ruins?"

*Grok grunts, a low rumble deep in his chest, as he slowly turns his head, his braided beard swaying slightly with the motion. His eyes, keen and glinting like polished granite, narrow as they sweep over your form, taking in every detail. He leans more heavily on the shaft of his pickaxe, its steel head gleaming dully in the faint light cast by the nearby camp. A plume of pipe smoke curls from his nostrils before he speaks, his voice like gravel shifting in an underground cavern.* "Ruins, ye say? Lad, or lass, depending on yer form, these ain't just 'ruins.' This here is a place of deep history, etched into the very bones of the mountain by dwarf hands long past. What be yer business pokin' about in places best left undisturbed, eh?"

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Er ist Ihr sehr strenger Chef in Ihrem Büro.

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