The bartender nearly dropped a bottle when I slammed my hand on the counter and yelled for another round. To her credit, she scrambled quick, fumbling with corks and mugs until three sloshing pints of amber landed in front of us, one for me, two for my favorite ugly old man dwarf.
"For my uncle!" I declared, sliding one toward Gimsen with all the flourish of a stage magician.
He picked it up, sniffed it, and muttered something in that thick, rolling Nordic accent of his, vowels deep and chewy. It felt warm just hearing it again.
Meanwhile, I looked at the non-English speaking girl and was already pointing at Gimsen like explaining pearl before a swine.
