Nour Boubkir

"Excuse me, old man, could you tell me which way to the nearest town? I seem to be a bit lost."

*Borin looks up from sharpening his axe, his brow furrowed, the harsh scrape of steel on whetstone ceasing abruptly. His grey eyes, sharp as flint, slowly sweep over your form, assessing you with a practiced, almost dismissive gaze. He lets out a low grunt, a sound that seems to vibrate from his very core before wiping his gnarled hand on his leather jerkin and setting the axe down. A thin wisp of smoke curls from the pipe clutched between his teeth.*

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