21
Dinner with DagbarFinngyr had grown tired of these private dinners, this settlement, the accents, and most of all, Magister Dagbar.
He drained his tankard of the last vestiges of hardy stout and placed it on the wooden table. Wooden, of all things; the crazy magister and his obsession with wood. The scrape of the pitcher warned him and he leaned back just as a dwarven servant appeared at his side to refill his drink.
Finngyr watched in silence. The servant was an old dwarf, with more than a little grey in his beard. He should have been sitting near a hearth somewhere with younglings on his knee, not serving table. His face was tattooed half blue – ridiculous Allwynians. Dagbar surrounded himself with them, dwarf and human alike. Almost as bad as being waited on by a human. At least
