Midarin

"By Mahal's whiskers!! What have I been drinking?" Midarin groaned and grunted while he stretched and held his head as if it was about to fall off. The pain of his aching skull throbbed like there was a nasty Orc drumming away in his ear.
As Midarin grunted low some more, while carefully stretching his arms, the cracking of his joints could be heard as clear as a bell, growing louder and louder in his head.

(In a cloth-covered book, written in brown ink... The squared runes of Khuzdul look almost jagged in this angular hand.)

((In a cloth-bound diary, in a guest room of the hall of the Order of the Divine Brew))

His poetry was bright with embroidery,
To woo her and never avoid her, he
But when Midarin was hale,
He blamed all this on ale,
And so Zhigi should marry a brewery!

Such were the lopsided lines I sent in response to the lavish poem concerning the color of my hair, and the supposed quality of my heart, by the tailor, Midarin - who later tried to disavow them, citing alcohol and lord Dwalin as the chief perpetrators instead.