Blue Mountains

"I am called Fikta. Once I was a smith of some renown among the Dwarves, but that was many years ago. Old age has dimmed my hearing and sight, and robbed my hammer hand of its strength."

With all our guests retired to their accommodations, those still standing after a night of dancing and drinking have free rein of whatever's left in the kegs. 

One binge-drinking later, our cleaners stumble across two broken tables, sticky puddles of ale and scraps of food, and a mountain of dwarves all passed out on the floors of the tavern. The signs of what must've been a truly successful dwarven Yule.

With everyone downing as much ale, mead, and imported wine as they please, the Yuletide merriment is in full swing and many take to the dance floor.

Finishing her duties outside, Nistrid checks in with the barkeepers, only to find that they had already gone through over a third of the casks -- and the party only just started!

Rundod and Nistrid welcome a party of guests to the tavern-hall, guided there through the winding mountain roads by the beautiful Freylis.

Rundod and Nistrid confiscating weapons before guests can enter the tavern-hall and join the Yule Revelries. 

Just outside the road leading into Thorin's Hall. That's Fleuricia behind me. She was perfectly warm; I, however, had to buy some new clothing to handle the frigid mountians.

Who is this, I wonder? Some great dwarven king looking out over his lands? Perhaps merely a great protector of Thorin's Hall, forevermore guarding the courtyard square in which he's been placed.