A thin, wizened old man enters. He looks tired and dusty, as if he has been on the road all day and, indeed, for most of his life. He gives a menacing stare to the drinkers around him as he approaches the bar.

Laying his axe across the bar he is about to order some Klatchian cactus juice (he has picked up some strange tastes on his travels abroad) when he sees something furry at the other end of the bar, half hidden in shadow.

"What the bloody hell is a monk--" But he never got to finish his question. Some things you learn quickly, at the Drum.