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Hob raised his little glass with the others. Truth be told, he’d never had Dwarven spirits, his preference being for good ale. ‘May our gardens bloom with flowers and vegetables and our burrows with little ones!’ he said, adding his own toast.
He brought the little cup tentatively to his nose and sniffed it. A strong scent, though not unpleasant. It spoke of solidness and fire’s heat and brightness he thought, though he could not tell why. Tipping the glass back as he touched it to his lips, he let a small amount seep onto his tongue. Fiery, indeed! It brought tears to his eyes and a bout of coughing as it ran down his throat.
‘Good!’ he rasped, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his tunic. ‘Surprisingly good.’
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Young she was and yet not so. The braids of her dark hair were touched by no frost, her white arms and clear face were flawless and smooth, and the light of stars was in her bright eyes, grey as a cloudless night . . .
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