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Ibun gave Baldin a great grin. The tips of his mustache curved up until they nearly touched the corners of his eyes. And those same eyes glinted merrily at the thought of another strong arm to aid in the recovery of the Deeps.
‘Well, then,’ he said, reaching into the inner pocket of his vest. ‘This calls for something a bit stronger than Shire ale to celebrate!’ He pulled out a silvered flask, all worked with fine traceries, now much smoothed over with age. ‘A wee dram of Dwarven spirits is what I’m thinking.’
Ibun poured out a finger’s width each in clean mugs and passed one to Baldin.
May your ax be sharp
Your forge fire hot
And your beard grow long and thick as Durin’s!
. . . he spoke, raising his glass to his tablemate.
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Outside a dog, a book is man's best friend.
Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.
-- Groucho Marx
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