When one finds oneself limited to the watered down swill of the menfolk, inebriation takes on the qualities of a noble struggle, for an enormous quantity of said swill is necessary to achieve that coveted state (without which you have found it impossible to live among the menfolk, what with their table manners and bans against public urination). Men consider drunkenness a vice, like adultery, or picking one's nose in public, but to the dwarves it is the default mode of existence. And so, in short, your debts to the local watering hole have become untenable. Threatening to gouge out the tavernkeeper's eyes did not have the conciliatory denouement you intended, but rather resulted in your spending the night in the castle dungeons.

It would have been a more permanent arrangement had not the steward, Gryffth Zale, interceded on your behalf and judged that you settle your debts by some alternate means. The suggestion of a bare-knuckle fist-fight was summarily dismissed, as was a pie-eating contest. Mankind's legal proceedings remain woefully unenlightened. Instead you were tasked to help cure the tavernkeeper's bedridden daughter of her recent illness.

Not being a barber or monk, you are forced to resort to more desperate means. Northwest of the town are the old ruins of an ancient temple beneath which is said to lie the resting place of St. Penitent the Hand. As the legend goes, there is a holy font somewhere in his tomb whose waters can destroy any mortal disease. You must find it and carry back a gobletfull of the tonic to the tavernkeeper. There are other unsavory rumors about the tomb, but you are well-traveled, and a dwarf besides. What you lack in experience you make up for with:

>A nose for treasure
>An ear for languages
>A taste for battle
>Write-in