“And so I ended up at the court of Dáin, king under the Mountain!” Ghralin, the famed, dwarf storyteller and archivist looked satisfied and leaned back on his chair, his hands folded across his belly. After a moment he leaned forward again and took a deep draught from his battered old tankard, which was filled to the brim with that kind of brew that only madmen and dwarves could swallow. The men around the table were dumbfounded by the story they just heard. The youngest spoke up eagerly: “Come on Ghralin, tell us another story, please?” Eotháin asked.
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