"Seven Silver Eagles. Not a coin less, respected Master Mage."
The stall owner.
An old Dwarf man, missing a front tooth, his fingernails caked with black grime.
He squinted, using a greasy thumb and forefinger to pick up a palm-sized, dark red ore from his stall. The stone, its surface marked with a natural honeycomb pattern, felt heavy in his hand as he weighed it.
His gaze swept over the hooded figure before him. The man's deep gray traveling cloak had clearly been washed many times and its edges were frayed, but its style and cut still hinted at a more refined past.
The Dwarf's eyes then lingered for a moment on the man's brownish hair—meticulously combed despite the mine dust—and his overly clean fingers. He grinned, revealing yellowed, dark teeth.
