Stomping into the bar at this time is a rather dour-looking creature, last seen in line. At the time the stocky stature and near-permanent frown made it seem as if the call reached the Duergar of the Underdark, but upon closer inspection he's simply a Dwarf. Without so much as a glance to the men huddled over the map he sets his traveler's pack next to a barstool with a surprisingly loud thud, coughs, and hops his way onto the seat. It's clear that he's very comfortable in the particular stool he selected, and upon closer inspection the floorboards seem worn and bent where his pack sits.
Two oddly misshapen coppers clatter on the bar, and the harried barkeep stays true to cliche as he slides over with a frothing pint. A frothing pint and a crumpled piece of paper with hasty scrawl. The barkeep seems to be scraping his knife on the lumpy coppers, but the Dwarf stops him with a slow, silent shake of his head; the barkeep goes back to more mundane matters. The Dwarf slowly sips his lager while reading the paper, as a lord or baron would read correspondence over wine, and the barkeep resumes his nervous stares at the collected men of ill repute. Suddenly, the Dwarf sputters and chokes; it would have been a full spit-take had he not held the beer in his mouth so adamantly.
"The Seven Shards of the Black Lich?!"
He turns finally towards the rest of the assembled group, as if seeing them for the first time.
"Insanity! Records tell much of the Black Lich, I should know, but his Crystal shards are nothing more than a fabrication by Bards who feel the strange need to make more infamous the creature who has already killed so many and destroyed so much. This is our mission? This is madness."
The Dwarf takes a long gulp of his lager, then sets the empty pint down with a clatter.
"I've got everything we'd need for wilderness travel in my shop," he says with a stubby thumb pointing out the door. "When do we leave?"