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‘Holy smokes, Skald!’ Bror exclaimed bursting into the kitchen like a great bolt of lightning. ‘What are you doing?’ Skald looked up at him, not in the least amused, apparently. There was a black look in his eyes, angry at being disturbed. ‘Don’t just stare at me,’ Bror said sharply. ‘That’s the third mug full you’ll be drinking in less than two minutes.’
Skald’s glare became darker, even less amused by the thought that this was the second time in a row that he’d been watched from the doorway. He deliberately lifted that third mug of ale to his lips and began to down it, too. He likely would have finished it in as little time as the others, but Bror took the remaining two steps to him, and with one blow sent the whole mug, ale and all, spinning from Skalds hand. Bror lifted his chin in defiance as Skald bounded to his feet.
‘You don’t just try to get drunk on a normal bases, Skald Stonecut,’ Bror said, thoroughly alarmed at Skald’s behavior. ‘Is Riv dead or something? No, there are all the marks here that he’s come home. What’s wrong with you? Who were you talking about? What orcs?’ He knew what orcs, he took that back. ‘What dark demon? Did Riv tell you what he saw?’
There were too many questions pounding around in his head. Skald - usually patient, and rarely angry unless he’d done some trick or prank that he didn’t necessarily deserve - looked on the verge of strangling him, and no where near the humor of answering all the questions. But the more Bror realized this, the faster some undefined fear and terror rose inside him. Had something happened to Riv? Was the City of Elves already destroyed? Were the dark forces on their doorstep?
The thoughts sped through his mind faster than can be recorded, and in expectant fear, he waited for Skald to make some sort of reply.
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