Hours, days, he had waited for this - a satisfyingly frothy ale to wash away the soot and dust from his parched mouth and throat.
It had been even longer since he had the opportunity to set down axes and daggers in favour of tongs, anvil and fuller. His tenure as protector to the Trollhunter and resident pub dweller often occupied his time as of late, save for this brief window.
He could never attest to being anywhere near as skilled as his father and tutor, in fact the troll would often say his skills are better placed in detailing, but this is besides the point.
Staring at the bubbling foam of his ale, the blackened troll loosely clung onto the handle, lost in a tired array of thoughts. A happy, contented place to be drifting into, all until his vision was away with a blur of illuminated gray hide, splinters, and an empty hand where the tankard once was.
He slowly looks up at this goliath who was responsible, then down to the mess at his feet, before turning back to Grindor.
Draal relents, rolling eyes, âThere are a dozen empty tables and half of an arena of space in this pub to fight in, and you chose my table?â
He frowns, soot and ash breaking apart as hide creases at the sight of the golden amber dripping down the Krubera lump. He would have to get himself another.
Bjorn was going to be pissed. Grindor did have a tendency to break tables and chairs when he got into fights, but in his defense, he never starts them. He only finishes them!
The firemaster grumbles, orange eyes narrowing. âI chose nothing. He did.âÂ
After jabbing a claw at the crumpled troll on the floor, Grindor turns and goes back to the booth he had been sitting at when the idiot decided he wanted to fight the GummGumm. He snatches up his tankard -- largely untouched -- and brings it over to (Drill? Drell?) the sooty blue Kitlar, holding it out.Â
âHere. A drink for a drink lost.â