“You call this mead?” Jack-Louie asked. How could one not find good mead among the dwarves?
The dwarven barkeep’s red face burned hotter. “You insulting my mead, halfling?”
Jack-Louie took another swig. He nodded. “Yes. My grandniece could drink this and not even get tipsy.”
A mug came at Jack-Louie’s head. Fortunately, he had just leaned down to check inside his cup. The mug soared through the air, smacking into the angriest dwarf in the entire tavern. The music cut off with a twang, and every eye in the tavern turned to look at him.
Jack-Louie scowled. Why were they looking at him? He turned to see the barkeep pointing at his face. Jack-Louie blinked. Had he thrown that mug? Jack-Louie fell off his barstool as the mug soared through the space his face had occupied a moment ago. It bounced off his staff and ricocheted into the barkeep's face.
“I see this establishment is not prepared for a finely tuned pallet,” Jack-Louie slurred. When had he sat down on the ground?
Oh good, some fine dwarves were assisting him in his exit. “Thank you, gentlemen.”
It turned out two angry dwarves could throw a halfling quite far out the door of a tavern. Jack-Louie faceplanted into the stone wall of the mountain they were under.
Not his most graceful exit. He stood and brushed himself off, catching his staff without looking as the dwarves threw it at him. Better, but he would still have to find good mead elsewhere.