"Precisely because it's strong, it deserves to be called liquor!"
Dain shouted in protest, then pointed at his own throat. "When we dwarves drink, we use our throats to measure the temperature of the mountain fire! The way you drink it, you haven't even lit the flame!"
He stood up and swayed, yet still stubbornly straightened his back, looking as if he could handle another ten cups.
"You people..." He swept his gaze around the room and tapped the air with his finger. "Your tolerance is pathetic! Compared to us dwarves, you're... you're ridiculously weak!"
His words drew bitter smiles from those around him, and even Paul couldn't help shaking his head with a quiet laugh.
Helson leaned toward Cecil and said in a low voice, "He's completely drunk."
"Yeah." Cecil lowered his voice in reply. "But it's not that his tolerance is poor. He simply has no idea how strong this liquor is."
Dain remained relentless. He thumped his chest while muttering something in the dwarven tongue, his tone carrying a hint of provocation and pride.
He staggered back into his seat and tilted his head slightly, as if he still wanted to say something. But before he could finish, his eyes glazed over. His head drooped, settling against the back of the chair as a quiet snore began to rumble.
Everyone looked at one another, then burst into laughter.
"Mr. Dain," Hansel said with a laugh as he patted Dain on the shoulder, "it seems Dragon's Breath has truly conquered you tonight."
Dain gave no response. A satisfied smile lingered at the corners of his mouth as his snores grew louder, and he sank completely into dreamland.
Paul waved, and the attendants approached on tiptoe. They lifted him from the chair and, carefully bracing his heavy, swaying body,