So tough, these northerners were; not just in hardy endurance and constitution oh no no no! But like month old dried jerky pressed with sawdust when it came to manners, at least, such was the perceptions of the diminutive Mori. He could hardly get a word in with the huddled tallfolk finding refuge in the warm halls of The White Stag, let along ply and inquire their current ambitions. It was all fish to them! Pickled fish mostly, what with the especial bitterness of the season, and while the little halfling was hardly adverse to a good pickled anything, it made for difficult intrigue to find others for his little wagon. So many, too many, abandoned in the village prior. "Fie-diddy-doo! What of a bit of chill!" He would mutter to himself, alone at his table with his delicate, almost pristinely unchipped tea set, slurping out of his large, steaming cup. A miserable sight, to see a cross hobbit surrounded by a throng who wouldn't share in his tea.
But then, in that twist of fate that seemed to flicker about those of his small, hairyfooted kind, opportunity would shove the door of the inn open, and this time, Mori could not see anyone over the crowd to view who would enter. This struck the small fellow with a tingling of curiosity, and made a bit of an effort to tilt and turn and twist his bemuttonchop'd head to get a better look, spying the entrance of a... of a dwarf!
Armed, and armored? Mori thought to himself. Ice in the beard, bloodied cloak? Not TALL?! He had pursed his lips in consideration, and then with a snap of his fingers, dedicated to chance again. He set his cup down and quickly began pouring from his quaint kettle into his cup and then into an empty one awaiting, thusfar fruitlessly, for an unexpected guest. Then, he hopped off the large chair, and reaches for the cups, walking in a careful dance around and between the large roaming legs of northeners to make his way to the hearth.
Would if that Gorm's eyes were not completely solidified from the blizzard, the dwarf would no doubt see the presence of small, hairyfooted fellow, couldn't even be four feet in height, approach with a warm smile with a sympathetic, bushy, brow, weilding dual, steaming, tea cups. He was draped in, well, several cloaks, and underneath were a jerkin that seemed to be riddled, absolutely astoundingly riddled, with metal buttons, that seemed to appear as if they were stitched in for protection rather than fashion. Muttonchops sprang wildly from the frame of his otherwise shaven or hairless face, and his hat was old and beaten with an extravagant red feather springing from its wide-brimmed circumference.
"Hoy hoy and good tidings, my frozen friend! You have the look as if you've seen the bitter worst of this bitter weather! Please, I am Mori, Mori Nettleknot, at your service- a friend of Brandobi, at your service, my fellow! Would you take tea to help with the cold?" He said, jutting a teacup out to the large dwarf.