A halfling stands before you, dressed in bright and exhuberant attire. He strikes you as a merry little halfpint, he is often found smiling and savouring the pipeweed his kind are so famous for.

He carries a small lute strapped across his back, his boots caked with mud from pursuing the instrument that lends the observer an indication of how he earns his coin.

The question is, how does a creature of his size and disposition survive the rough roads? His slight and scrawny frame suggests he'd prefer flight before fight.