Logan hunches over a table in the grimy common room of the Anvil's Respite, a small inn in the Forge district of Orlaine. A look of fierce concentration shines in his eyes. In front of him lies a finely crafted leather-bound book. He thumbs through the first few pages, pages filled with surprisingly elegant dwarven script. He finds the next vacant space and begins to write.
Arathorn Dugrudu
Though he has been turned over to the authorities of Orlaine and shall be prosecuted by the local magistrate, the judgement, I fear, shall not be harsh enough. I, Logan of Clan Granitehewer hereby bear the grudge for forge robbery and attempted forge robbery, a high crime against the forge. As written in dwarven law his grudge must be repaid in blood or in gold. Dammaz is recorded and dammaz shall be served.
Logan pauses for a moment and taps his chin with his quill. Nodding to himself he writes in the margin.
One thousand gold pieces, or his hammer swinging hand.
He carefully blots the page, closes the book, and binds the clasp.
He turns to Rath and claps him on the shoulder, "Ay, ye show a man frienship by pickin' him up an' offerin' him help an' it turns it he's naethin' but a law doon, scum suckin' forge thief. Best fur him if he stays locked up until weel after we heed out fur th' Moorydon Swamp, otherwise thes grudge weel be settled. Welp, naethin' like recordin' a grudge tae gie th' bluid up! Bar keep! Anither ale!"