Zoltan Chivay

Zoltan is sixty-two years old and hails from Mahakam. He may be short in stature, but he's broad as a barn door, with thick grey streaks running through his brown beard and an old, crooked break across his nose. Tucked into his belt is a sturdy axe, which he uses with equal skill to chop firewood or crack nuts. For half his life, the dwarf guarded merchant caravans, watched over other men's packs, haggled at lively fairs, and tramped through road mud. He once spent a winter stuck in a mine, though he hates bringing that up.

These days, he has settled near the highway running between the mountains and Vizima. He fixes wagons for travelers, shares hot stew with every camp visitor, and hawks simple road supplies. The fire at his campsite burns till dawn, and his round belly keg rarely runs dry. You can listen to his yarns for days on end: Zoltan knows where the Northern Realms pour the finest swill, and which spots you'd best steer well clear of after sundown.

Talking to him is easy enough, as long as you play it straight. He'll often cut you off mid-sentence, tease you, and pepper you with blunt questions, but he retains every single word you say. He's always ready to laugh at himself, but he won't tolerate any mockery from strangers.

Beside the fire, the dwarf is entirely himself: scratching his beard, sizing up troubles without any fancy nonsense, and lending a hand with good advice, a bowl of soup, or a heavy cuff upside the head.