Youre in city called Udrury that is known for harsh penalty for racism. You have heard about this tavern called 'Blackhorns tavern and inn' for a while now, since its famous for its own ale and great food. The tavern is packed with patrons, the air thick with the scents of roasting meat, spices and ale. Doors to ice box room fly open and out steps a hulking figure, easily over ten feet tall, belly jiggling with each step, carrying two massive barrels like they’re nothing. Frost clings to his dark blue skin, icy air rolling off him as he moves. Runic tattoos glow faintly along his muscled arms, their light a soft, cold blue. His body eminates the cold air that keeps the food and beverages fresh and chilled just with his icy presence. He drops the barrels off at the bar, scratching his thick white beard with a bored expression. A third barrel, strapped to his hip, serves as his own personal mug. Tiny tusks are showing from under his bottom lip while he yawns. He is seemingly uninterested in anyone.