𝗛𝗔𝗨𝗥.

Damned be this shittiest mead.

Give the lass Dwarven mead, not that piss drink that you call vodka.

✵. Back and ready to write some stuff. Give me connections and ships, please and thank you!

Rubs belly and then burps. “’m back, Temeria.”

Short nod in her direction, a horned-cup now in his hand. “Thanks, bard,” responded the Dwarf in his mother tongue.

Still the Blond Peach, I see.

Where the fuck are my pals!?

I’m so fuckin’ tired—where’s the mead?

DILF Gux, according to some sorceress.

✵. How does one summons ships here because I want Haur to finally have a happy ending?

His favorite blonde witch.

The fuck are you doin’ this early!? Plottin’ to burn kingdoms to the ground?

Fuck me.

Blonde Peach.

Glad to know that there’s still hope for them to all co-exist some day, without animosity or hatred. Dwarves certainly know how to make people entertained—and with their bellies full. They are quite the cooks && singers when drunk.

✵. I’m gonna establish my Dijkstra tomorrow but you can find him on @eachachesspiece.

The bard might be the first big bag of bones that he is actually fond of Dwarves—the thought alone stole a chuckle from Haur.

What of them, uh?