The Pick & Goggles  

Brewer Eisenbjorn took three mugs in his fist and filled each one from the tap. When this was done, he made a great ceremony of placing each mug carefully on the bar, a wide grin on his face. The three thirsty Oathbearers gulped them down eagerly, wiping the froth from their beards when their mugs were empty. So, ye say you're called Oathbearers, eh? Well, we Dwarfs of the Bitterstone Clan have been down here in the mine for a good while now, clearing out them chuffin' greenskins and takin' back what's rightfully ours. We're grateful for the help, mind, but we'd have managed on our own. An order's an order, though, and if the High Kings needs our Bitterstone ore to take back Eight Peaks, then he'll find it to be the best ore under any mountain in the old world!" The Oathbearers raised their mugs in salute, and said words of praise for the Brewer in their native tongue of Khazalid. Aye, aye," said Brewmaster Eisenbjorn. "Your compliments are welcome, friends." He reached down behind the bar and produced a bowl of polished silver, which he placed in front of the patrons with a wink. And of course, so's your coin."

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