You step into your local pub. A fierce looking dwarf sits at the stool, sipping from his mug of cheap ale. His fiery red hair marks him as a Slayer, one of those dishonored dwarfs who've sworn to seek a glorious death in battle to atone for whatever offence they've committed. He glares at you, the same way the battle-scarred dwarf probably glares at everyone.

"What are you starin' at, manling?"