Teras Isle's Cobblers' Co-Operative
It is located at the corner of Imflass and Dragonstail in a single story stone building.
The workshop foreman's name is Frid. He can be found through the grey wooden door from the Vestibule.
The foreman is taller than the average dwarf. He wears a pair of wire-framed spectacles near the tip of his nose, squinting almost constantly. His dark leather apron barely reaches his knees.
A low rumble of sound fills the air, followed by a loud clattering in the hallway. The workshop foreman bustles over to the wooden door, opens it and blasts a few choice dwarven curses at the bumbling apprentices outside.
An apprentice hands the foreman a pair of boots for his approval. The workshop foreman brings the boots close to his face, examining the stitching carefully while he rubs a calloused thumb along the grain of the leather uppers. After a long pause he hands the boots back with a nod of acceptance.
The workshop foreman paces the bare wooden floor, his heavy boots striking the planks sharply with each step. He mutters to himself, "When will those blasted mule-carts arrive? We can't go much longer with just the supplies on hand."
Bartober is the register. He shows up in room descriptions as a bespectacled dwarven man.
Dark brown eyes peer out from behind the registrar's thick spectacles. His shoulder-length, ruddy hair is tied back with a beaded leather tie. He wears a leather vest with many pockets, out of which peek the tops of different leather working tools. A writing quill is stuck behind one ear.
Bartober pulls a stubby pipe from a pocket in his vest. After feeling around for a light in all of his pockets, he spits out a curse and shoves the pipe back.
Bartober pulls a toothpick from behind his ear and picks at his teeth. He glances at the tip, licks off a piece of food, and shoves the toothpick behind his ear once more.
Bartober pushes his spectacles to the top of his head as he flips through the pattern book. With a deep, guttural sigh he says, "Nope, don't look no better like this, neither!" He repositions his glasses and leans against the lectern.
Bartober suddenly lets out a very deep, and apparently satisfying, belch.
Holding up a pair of bejeweled slippers, Bartober quietly says, "Yes, this will fetch a pretty fine price." Clearing his throat, he looks first to his left and then to his right as he tucks them in a box behind the door.
Pacing back and forth across the room, Bartober grunts under his breath. He turns and walks to the door and yells, "I did so dress myself!" before resuming his pacing and grumbling.
Swaggering in an exaggerated manner, Bartober suddenly spins around and pulls out his dagger. He hurls the weapon clear across the room, embedding it within the wall. For a few seconds, the hilt of the dagger bobs up and down before settling. Snickering, he walks over, frees the dagger, and tucks it in a pocket in his vest.
A stocky dwarven shop manager
The shop is located through the curtain at the northern end of the workshops.
Broad of shoulder and long of beard, this old dwarf's skin is as tanned as much of the leather he sells. His canvas apron is an amalgamation of colored dye splotches. Ironically, his calf-high leather boots are worn almost to the point of being beyond repair.
The dwarven shop manager looks at you with a quick smile, "We have many items for sale, you would probably be better served by reading the sign over there." She directs your attention to a clearly marked sign hanging on the other side of the counter. "Our hides, leathers, and pelts would all be appropriate for use in footwear. That is if you know what you're doing."