The heavy oak doors to the basement groaned under the strain.
Bang!
The doors burst open, and Ora Stonebeard rolled in like a cannonball wrapped in iron, trailing a bizarre whirlwind of sea brine and bird droppings.
The Dwarf Baron, who ordinarily valued his beard more than his life, had lost every shred of dignity. A few large bird feathers clung to his proud twin-braided red beard, and several conspicuous scratches marred his carefully polished pauldrons-"medals" left by the talons of some enormous bird.
"Ugh, these little tyrants! There's just no pleasing them!"
Complaining loudly, Ora planted his battleaxe, powerful enough to split a boulder, on the floor with a dull thud.
He flopped into a chair, grabbed the pitcher of cold water from the table, and tipped it back, looking for all the world as though he were drinking to celebrate a victory.
"Veylin, do you know how clingy those beasts are?" Ora wiped his beard. There was no anger on his face, only unmistakable smugness.
"They used to ignore me even when I tossed them a dead fish. Now? They insist I feed them by hand! With salt! And that red sauce, too! Ketchup, right? Damn it, why does a bird need ketchup?!"
As he griped, he showed Veylin the scratches on his shoulder armor. "Look at this. I was just a little late, and the lead bird took a swipe at me like some spoiled little woman! If I don't scratch it, it won't let anyone ride! What kind of nonsense is that?"
Behind him, several equally bedraggled personal guards squeezed through the doorway, supporting one another. They all looked as though they had just crawled out of a meat grinder, their armor askew and their faces bruised by pecks. Yet their eyes shone with excitement-the particular