The brownish hue of cheap ale splashed violently over his leather breeches as a dozen heavy horns and pewter mugs clinked together in a deafening, sloppy chorus. Harlon didn't mind the spill; it wet his hands and soaked his sleeve before he allowed the rest of the foam to flow down his throat like a roaring river.
The winter winds were howling outside the stone hall, and a fierce, unyielding thirst was raging within. This might not have been a battle of steel, but it was a grueling political skirmish nonetheless. The only decent thing a battle-weary man could do after such an ordeal, provided he wasn't lying dead in a ditch, was drink until the world blurred at the edges.
His brother always said that.,
And so they drank. They drank, they gorged on roasted meats, and they had a thoroughly jolly, rowdy time of it.
