The inn attendant is a waifish girl of about fourteen, who hops down off an oversized barstool and scurries over to the doorway, her twin dishwater-blonde braids trailing behind her freckle-dotted face. Her smile could light up the room even on a cloudy day, and she bobs a quick curtsey with a practiced spread of the hem on her blue plaid dress. "Good morrow to you, sirs and madame; if it is Master Maff you seek, you'll find him in that booth yonder." She extends one arm to point to the north side of the taproom, where a stout, bearded man sits alone, marking books by candlelight. The giantish proportions of the room make him almost look like a dwarf, except that his close-cropped auburn hair and beard are decidedly un-dwarfish.

"I'll have to see whether we have a cask of the Ironhold already open, sir," she answers Zircon's hearty plea with an earnest nod. "If we have to crack it, I must warn you of the three gold piece tapping fee. Unless you'd like to purchase the whole cask, in which case I'll find Master Gruenab so you two can settle on the price."