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. And to "good old Flint," and an assortment of
other things, as the hour grew late and the guests at this im-
promptu party grew increasingly besotted.
"It's a disgrace that my dead brother is dishonored by a
night of mourning like this!" Ruberik grumbled disdainfully.
Third Fireforge son - Aylmar and Flint were first and
second - Ruberik stood by the hearth, stiff in his black
waistcoat and too-tight tie. He turned up his nose at the mug
of ale Bertina held toward him and frowned disapprovingly
at the newly empty keg, the pools of ale on the floor, and the
sleeping dwarves throughout the large room.
"Oh, Ruberik," scolded Fidelia, one of the older Fireforge
sisters, "don't burst a vein." A buxom, bawdy lass, she
tossed back the contents of her mug and held it out for refill-
ing. "We're not so much mourning Aylmar - we've done
that for a month - as celebrating Flint's return."
Ruberik's work-roughened hand reached out to snatch
the mug from her waiting lips. "If you have no respect for
your elders, young woman, at least try to summon a bit for
the dead!"
"We grieve differently, that's all," his sister said, used to
his pompous outbursts
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