The Heroes Rest- Neverwinter Fan Site

A Dalelands smith who drunkenly stumbled into the wrong bunk, woke up halfway to Neverwinter, and decided fate clearly wanted him to hit things professionally.

Irongut Anvilfoot was once a stout smith of the Dalelands, known for blades sharp enough to make even Moradin squint with approval. His days were filled with steel, song, and the dream of a hall full of dwarflings. Then Tymora laughed. One foggy morning after one too many tankards, he wandered out of the Drunken Donkey in search of his bed… and crawled instead into an empty cot belonging to a sellsword caravan bound for Neverwinter. He snored before his boots even fell off. By the time he woke, the wagon was rolling north, his hangover roaring like an angry wyvern, surrounded by adventurers who insisted he had signed on the night before. Too proud—and too confused—to admit otherwise, Irongut simply shrugged, belched, and declared, "If fate's pourin', I'll drink deep." Hammer in hand, he embraced his new life. Somewhere between the battles, bruises, and bar tabs, he realized he rather liked being an adventurer. And so the smith became a warrior, the exile became a wanderer, and the legend of Irongut Anvilfoot began to brew. Just don’t ask him to stop for breath. He’ll only demand another mug first.