Chapter 12

Early evening became late evening, and with oil lamps lit Crys and Daghmor continued their drinking and discussing, the elf's fears about assassins creeping up the tower's staircase easing, being surrounded by the comforts of a fire, one of the precious few people Crys would consider a friend, and the port wine he had opened after swallowing the last of the Mclure brandy with a wistful sigh.

The topics were diverse and the conversation animated, pitching back and forth between the tones of derisive and deadly serious, and everything in-between. Neither of the two had much of an opportunity to discuss things freely with another in months, and with the added loosening of tongues by the alcohol, they could go for hours.

" So then the gnomes replies; 'it's not the size of the cockatrice that matters, it's what you do with its eye that counts', " Daghmor managed to sputter out between boisterous guffaws. Crys, nearly spilling the contents of his small liquor glass on the rug, burst into a hysterical giggle, then calmed himself somewhat only to have more rapid-fire chuckles slip past his pursed lips.

" He actually said that to a pair of Kaldorei women? "

" Aye, he was as red as a newly sliced cut of beef after realizing what he said, but the two of them figured that they weren't hearing him properly and just smiled politely. "

" Was the cut of beef from the loin? " Crys asked with mock seriousness, sending the two of them into another fit of laughter. Tears and straggling huffs of laugh later the two sat red-faced and with sore bellies, and in the case of Crys, angry wounds, slouching in their respective chairs comfortably. A bottle and a half had been downed between the two of them, and there were no signs of slowing.

Almost feverishly warm from both the booze rushing through their systems and the fire, the two companions stared off into space for awhile, lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Crys squirmed in his chair, adjusting his weight and watching with a mild interest as Dagh did the same, picking up the ever-present polished wooden club from his side and running both his fingers and his eyes over the various whorls and knots in the wood in the firelight. A question cropped up into the warmage's mind, one that, stone sober and possessing a faculty known as tact he might have avoided should the question lead to an uncomfortable answer, but seeing how he was not the first and was in danger of losing the second entirely by this point, he spoke.

" Why do you call that club 'Matilda'? "

Daghmor's eyes left the club's gleaming surface for a moment only to return to it as he debated the answer, or debated speaking the answer.

" It reminds me of the nose of the first girl I ever loved. I've had it for almost as long as I've been out of the army, destined to be a piece of firewood had it not struck me that it reminded me of her. "

Crys began to chuckle at the thought of a dwarven woman with a nose as thick and knotted as the club, but the laughter died quickly as he noticed that Daghmor hadn't joined him. He continued to look the simple weapon up and down, his eyes distant and unfocused. Sitting up straighter, the wizard frowned slightly, his tone a little more serious as he addressed the rogue a second time.

" I don't remember you ever talking about her before. You've mentioning something about a girl you knew back in Dun Morogh, and I've thought of why you had decided to name your club in such a way, but you've never… " Crys trailed off, the sudden change in the dwarf's demeanor making him wonder if he had verbally stumbled into some awkward personal topic. A silence passed between then, long and uncomfortable, but Dagh broke it by clearing some emotion from his throat and speaking softly and slowly his answer.

" I had met Matilda one night when me and the rest of the boys from the Forty-ninth Ironforge Brigade were drinking up a storm in Kharanos, fresh out of training and with money and steam to blow at the Thunderbrew place. It was as rowdy as it gets in there, combat training and the pain-dulling effects of alcohol were a requirement, you as likely to meet a punch in the face as a tankard to clink in a toast whenever you turned. There were plenty of barmaids there that night, stocky and smiling, low-cut bodices all jingling with silver coins as the lads all gave a tip and got a feel at the same time. I was one of them, a wet-behind-the-ears short beard with only a few dead trolls under my belt, but if you had asked me back then I was the finest warrior under the mountain. Soothing a lip split moments before by a clumsy back hand from a brawl I wasn't really a part of one of the maids walked up beside me out of my peripheral vision and started cleaning up

mugs. "

" I decided I wanted to spread a little of my hard-earned cash around with some of the lasses, maybe seeing if I could get some company for later on in the night too. I turned to her, silver coin between my index and middle fingers and with the giggle more suited for a boy than a grown dwarf shoved them down that cavernous cleavage. It was when I looked to her face that I froze, to a pair of eyes the color of new steel looking at me past a large and knobby noise. I stared. I couldn't help it, not as lack-witted as I was at the time. Adjusting her heavy tray she stared back at me, a look between tired resignation and growing irritation on her lightly freckled face.

" Look mate, you leaving a tip or looking for a place to stay for the night? " she sighed finally. Her bodice didn't jingle like the others had, and I was fairly certain why, considering the reason I was staring at her. My fingers slipped free and my eyes dropped, her tone like a bucket of cold water over my giddy mood. Muttering something under her breath she finished her task and walked hastily away, my eyes following after her. "

" I felt terrible. She wasn't lacking in other charms, to be sure. As solid and well-developed as any dwarf could ask, hair the color of newly minted coppers, breasts like, er, well, you get where I'm going with this. After that I could only sip at my drinks and search for her through the crowd, barely taking my eyes off of her when I stopped to put a fellow trooper in a headlock and gave him a solid rap on the skull with a stein for saying Brewnall's Best Bitter was worlds better than Thunderbrew's Dark Lager. I tell ye, lad, a dwarf off his drink is a sad sight. "

" Well, the night wore on, dwarves staggered out or were tossed out, and the crowd began to thin. I stayed until there was naught left but barmaids cleaning up the floors and tables, and a few drunks sleeping off their beer in out-of-the-way corners. Without really thinking about it I started helping righting tables, prying chairs apart, and giving some of the waking drunks the old heave-ho into a snow bank to speed the process up. Matilda, though I didn't know she was called that yet, cast a few glances at me but said nothing, there was too much work to be done for chit-chatting anyways. So, with an aching back and the sun already turning the skies grey, the maids began tallying up their tips, a sight that made me glad I had stuck around, with all the jostling and searching that was involved. Matilda stood apart from the rest, counting out a few coins and slipping them into a waist pouch. She didn't have a quarter of what the others brought in, tossing a shawl over her shoulders and frazzled hair and making for the door. By now the tavern keeper was giving me the eye, hand on an axe handle and gesturing to the door with his head. I had stayed as long as I needed to anyways. "

" I followed Matilda out, I could see her stiffen as she felt me fall in behind her, and her pace was quick and deliberate once she was outside. ' Wait up,' I had called, and she slowed, then stopped, half turning towards me, hands crossed defensively across her ample chest.

' Can I walk ye home? ' I asked, able to face down a berserk troll but unable to look into her steel hard eyes as I did. She said nothing for a bit, looking me up and down, vapor gusting from her nostrils in the chilly morning air.

' That depends what you are expectin' when we get there, ' she said finally, a bit of a bitter tone in her voice.

' I just wanted to see you to yer door, miss. I won't set a whisker inside if you don't permit it. '

She thought about this for awhile, and when she answered her tone had softened somewhat.

' Alright, but keep up and keep yer hands to yerself. '

I nodded and took up a place beside her, not too close like, and we started walking. It turned out that she lived in a small cottage about half a mile down the road, coming close to the tunnel leading to Anvilmar. She let herself in, turning in the door frame to look at me. I looked her in the eyes this time, not her nose or any other part, and she looked in mine.

' What's your name, ' she asked me.

' Private Daghmor Darkdelve. I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean to… ' I said, breaking contact with those eyes again, ashamed. Matilda pressed her lips into a firm line, cocking her head slightly.

' S'alright. You aren't the first and won't be the last. I can't help the way people think just like I can't help the way the Makers made me. '

I nodded, daring to look up at her again.

' Seems a pity, the other maids making ten times what you do in tips. '

Matilda shrugged. ' Life's rarely fair, and nobody's told me different. Adversity makes us stronger like the tempering of hot steel. Both as a man and a solider you should know this. '

I nodded to this wisdom, but it still didn't make the world seem right again.

' I should leave you alone, you worked twice as hard as any of the other barmaids, even if you made less coin for your troubles, good morrow to you. '

I turned to leave, stomping away a few paces before hearing her voice call after me, softer than I had ever heard it before.

' My name's Matilda, if you be wondering. I'd rather you know my name than thinking of me as that maid with the big nose in your memories. '

I stopped and turned back to her, bowing my head in acknowledgement and apology.

' Sorry Miss Matilda, I'm too besotted and brainless besides to even ask a name of you. I'm glad you have my name, so you can remember me by it and not as that rude drunk that walked you home one night. '

' You're drunk, yes, but you're not as bad as all that if given half a chance. Your mammy raised you with a good sense of guilt, and any man who listens to his mammy is one I wouldn't mind walking home with again. '

I brightened at this, standing a little straighter.

' I'll try and convince my buddies to come drinking again some night, ' I smirked at the concept of having to convince that lot to down a few pints at any time, ' and we'll have our walk. '

She gave a small smile of her own and nodded, watching me until her door closed with a 'thump'.

" Well lad, I don't have to get into the nitty-gritty to skip ahead a few months to the point where we were spending time together more and more, and not just at the tavern. My friends were mocking me something fierce when they first found out, but a few solid blows and bloodied noses later and they learned not to bring it up around me anymore. Matilda, my lad, she was something a dwarf can only dream about. She could near knock the jaw off anyone doing anything she didn't like, drink like a demon, shoot a bear dead at fifty paces with a single shot, and cook…her boar ribs were as good as anything that came off of mammy's spit…nay, rest her soul and damn mine, better than my mammy's. There were other things too, but I won't be getting into those, " Daghmor chuckled fondly at the memories and at Crys's growing unease.

" But, duty came calling in the shape of the Horde swept over the country side, rising up from the south like a tide of green skin and bloody axes. The duty of defending the dwarven lands was given to the most seasoned and hardy, and while my blood boiled at the thought of being forced away from my beloved homeland while it was in peril, the king had seen a need to send a portion of his armies further north, to give what help could be rendered to a newly forming alliance as the survivors from Stormwind and Azeroth sought sanctuary in the kingdom of Lordaeron. My good-bye to Matilda was all sorts of blubbering and other un-manly things, she and all those from out-lying towns being evacuated to Ironforge to await the coming of the orcs. She would be as safe in the heart of the city as she would be anywhere I was. "

" You don't need a reminder of the second war, lad, and there's much I wouldn't like to remember either. Quel'thalas had its share of action and losses in that war, but you all were defending your home. I was defending the homes of humans hundreds of miles away, each day wondering if the orcs had broken through the gates. Those were the days of bitterness and blood. All we could do were sing songs that used to echo off stone walls like they should and drink terrible human ale by night, fighting and dying and bleeding during the days. It was a long, terrible struggle. The number of dwarves kept dwindling, being buried on foreign soil, neither setting foot nor eye on their home again. But we pushed them back. All their demons, dragons, undead, trolls, ogres, it all fell apart around their ugly ears and we sent them packing. We pushed them hard all the way back across the Thandol Span, trimming dozens or hundreds from their rear ranks daily. Each step was bringing us a step closer to home, and the dwarves were always at the front because of this. Then there was the glorious day we set our eyes on the gates of Ironforge again, scarred, battered, but still standing strong. Even though our mood was dulled by the sight of the devastation we saw across the entire valley, the cut trees, clear mountain streams fouled with garbage and chemicals from goblin mercenaries. Horrible. "

" What really hurt, though, was there was no time to rest and rebuild. Not yet. I had to watch the gates of my home pass me by once again as we continued to push the Horde all the way back to the Black Morass. Their backs to the proverbial wall the orcs fought us tooth and nail, and our advance slowed. Months passed, and only the thought of returning to Matilda a deserter kept me from slipping away one night and seeking her out. They would have opened the gates by now, I had thought as we sat in that rotten swamp, swatting at winged bloodsuckers as big as my hand. She would return to her little cottage, or have started rebuilding it, and when I got back there, nearly a year after he had last seen her, I was sure I was going to ask her to marry me. It was during the final push on the Dark Portal that I got hit by that catapult round. The Horde had set up everything they had left, a massive wall of green orc and pink ogre backed by every troll still with them, and every catapult that could still roll. That last charge was the most terrifying and powerful moment I've experienced in all my years. Two sides clashing on that marshy ground, one enraged beyond reason by the suffering and destruction they had endured at the hands of the first, and the second making its final stand with no way to escape for the majority of them. "

" Catapults are siege weapons, I think even you know that much about conventional warfare. They have the power to shatter foot-thick wooden gates, smash apart stone and mortar, cave in walls. When the orcs released those spiked stones as we charged, there wasn't a blessed thing in all the world that could save those souls crushed by one. You expect in most fights that skill, armor, position in the ranks, they should all account for something, even if it isn't much. Nay. Even after seeing what strafing runs from the captured dragons the Horde had could do, you could still try to predict its flight path, shoot at it with a bow to get it to bank away, something, but not here. We were packed too tightly onto what small amount of solid ground there was for anything like that to occur. You could just look at the big ball of death arcing toward you and make peace with the Light. "

" I was lucky, " Daghmor chuckled humorlessly, rubbing his crippled right leg, " I was caught by a fragment after one had shattered five paces from my position, the piece that hit me thrice my weight in granite rock. It nearly turned my leg around completely, and shattered it in three places besides. I passed out from the shock quickly, no time for pain, just a horrid sense that something was very, very wrong with my leg as I tumbled sideways from the blow and into blackness. It was another minor miracle that something didn't kill me as I lay amongst the dead and wounded behind the main lines, things stalking out from behind and dragging corpses and the nearly dead back into the shadowy swamp to feast. That was how my service in the second war ended. I was found barely alive after the battle and given healing by a scrawny young priest who was disobeying orders regarding magical healing priorities and rank because it had been a brigade of dwarves had saved his family back on Lordaeron. They would've had to cut leg my off and Makers know what else if he hadn't done that, and as far as I was concerned he'd paid back his families debt because of it. It was a long trip home on the back of a pony for me and what lads had survived the fight, barely taking the time to rest and bandage wounds after the fight to once turn our eyes northwards towards Ironforge. "

" By the end of the trip I was able to hobble along fairly well, months of normal healing accomplished in a few short moments back in the swamp. It had occurred to me in my more self-pitying moments that if the priest had been more powerful in his art I would have been able to walk better afterwards, but again, I couldn't complain. I was returning to Matilda, after all, and I knew she'd take me back with a bum leg. Kneeling for the proposal might be a little tricky, but I was determined nonetheless to do it once I found her again. I had even gotten a ring, " Daghmor noted, turning the club over and showing Crys a simple steel band that had been woven into the leather at the base of the wooden implement like it could be used to hang the club from a hook. " Came from the ear of some big orc who wore it as an earring. The sneak tried to take my head from my shoulders when my back was turned during a night raid. I gutted him for that, and despite the chaos around me I still had the mentality to take it for such a purpose. "

" Kharanos was almost back on its feet when I rode through. The Thunderbrew Distillery had been used as a base of operations for the siege of Ironforge, so other than some general repairs and getting the orc stink out they were relatively untouched and opened for business weeks before I had arrived. That heartened me as I stopped to see if Matilda still worked there. It irked me to have to describe her as 'the maid with the big nose', but it was the simplest way in the minds of others to remember her. They said sure, she had moved up to her old place in the foothills and was waiting for some solider to return from the front, they said she'd been pining away for him the whole siege too. I tell you, lad, a dwarf can have a statue carved in his image, a hall or lager named after him, but to have that much impact on another person who was once a stranger, that is the sort of thing that can validate yer life. "

" I wasted no more time, barely taking the time to thank them before kicking my pony into a gallop, heading up to the hills. Enough blood-soaked miles and days had passed me by already. This was it. The poor little thing carrying me was huffing and sweating by the time we had crested the last hill, pushing her as I was. Then I stopped. There it was, the cottage I had remembered, the one I wished to return to all those lonely nights on the front. There was a hole in the north facing wall that had been patched with planks, but otherwise untouched. But there was something else. The door was partially opened, despite the chill, and only the tiniest bits of smoke rose from the chimney. I rode up, seeing it was dark inside, but not so dark as not to see the even darker stains on the floor. If I had a thousand words in dwarvish to describe the feeling that struck me right then, it wouldn't have been enough. I fairly fell out of the saddle, finding my hammer in my hand without even being aware that I wanted it, calling her name over and over even though I hadn't bidden my tongue to do it. I charged up as fast as my leg would let me, knocking aside the door and surveying the interior. "

Daghmor stopped there, the room silent except for the wood crackling in the fireplace. Crys was transfixed, barely breathing as he heard the story unfold, in the sort of naked detail that most only reserved for their own personal recollections of events. The rogue was lightly stroking the club in his hands now, almost affectionately, his eyes downcast, his lips lost in his beard. Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath Daghmor swiveled his head upwards, his eyes blinking rapidly as he did so.

" She was dead. Stone cold, undeniably, totally and completely dead. Face down in the middle of the cabin she was, the thick knife she used to saw pieces of cooked meat onto a platter for the two of us clutched in her hand, stained with blood too dark to come from any animal or dwarf. Her body was cut deep in many places, all over, like whoever had done this had kept cutting after she had fallen. Frozen, dried blood was everywhere, over everything. She had given them a hell of a fight, as I would have expected she would have. There were drag marks in the blood leading to the door, and a broken stone axe near the fireplace. Frostmane trolls never leave their dead. "

Dagh's face moved to back to look at the elf directly as he spoke now, his voice hoarse with raw emotion and anger, his eyes like black furnaces of rage reflecting the fireplace's light.

" All I wanted, all I ever wanted during those days and nights was to be with her again. I didn't want spoils, I didn't want medals, I didn't want praise. For me, it was if all of Dun Morogh had condensed into a single person, and it was her I was out there for. I gave up pints of blood, of tears, of sweat, and nearly the ability to walk for the war, but it was those bloody cowardly Frostmanes who probably hid during the entire occupation and crept out while attention was focused elsewhere who made it all for nothing. What's the point, lad?! " Daghmor fairly roared at him, the hand holding his stein trembling from the grip he had on it.

" What's the point of it all if you can't even protect the ones you love?! Of fighting and bleeding and dying when all it takes is some guard wanting to warm his feet for a few minutes more than check on that cabin up in the hills where the barmaid with the ugly nose lives? "

Crys'annadath had no answer, as there was none to give. A race that valued clan and family as much as dwarves did made the elf doubly surprised how focused Daghmor's affection had been. A war had been won, a land and its people saved, all was good for the whole, even if the individual had to suffer. The words that Daghmor and Stonesmite had exchanged at the smithy made sense now. Clan before the clansman. The many before the few. All the world in a single person. What followed that outburst and Daghmor draining the rest of his wine in one breath was a silence like that of a tomb, oppressive and dark. So now Crys knew exactly how deeply Daghmor's scars ran. There was more, though, the dwarf turning aside his grief with a tide of bitterness and pouring more alcohol for himself, continued to speak.

" I cried for hours. Terrible, body-wracking, pathetic sobs. I wasn't a man, a dwarf, a solider during those hours. I was emptied of all that and filled with tears instead. It was one of the purest yet unsettling times of my life. Then I stopped crying, I stopped writhing on the bloody floor. If the only thing I could give Matilda now was a proper burial, then that was what I was going to do. With the grim mind set of someone who's stared down a charging wall of orcs and had no where or way to run, I stared digging into the frozen ground with a spade with a broken handle I had found. It's hard work, digging frozen ground. I pulled and strained muscles, my hands bled, but I kept digging. I wrapped her body in a bed sheet, torn between wanting to see her face one last time and not wanting to remember her like this. I buried her in that shallow grave and covered her with soil and more tears, then with rocks I gathered from the surrounding area and even from the crumbling wall of the cabin. I coaxed a fire out from some of the firewood she had along one side, and after getting a flame going, piled more wood inside the cottage. It was filled with flames only minutes later, the fire burning clean the blood, the tiny theater of both her death and life, and sending my future with her miles into the sky on a road of smoke. "

" It was dark when I, bone-weary, shivering and raw from the wind, stumbled into the Thunderbrew distillery. I fell into a chair by the door, and began drinking like I wanted it to kill me. There were whispers all around me, about me, but I heard none of them. After that, I was too rip-roaringly drunk on ale and whiskey to care even if I did hear. There was one point though, where the conversation between a soldier and one of the regular barmaids drifted to my ears.

' Aw come on, lassy, spend some time with me. '

' Nay, I've got too much to do. One of our workers didn't show and we have to pull double duties tonight. The one with the ugly nose who thinks that soldier will still come back for her. '

Laughter followed.

' Aye, I remember that one. I'd fight my way though a slew of orcs just to get clear of that snout, ' the dwarf laughed, one echoed by his fellows. "

" The next thing I remember I was lying face up in a prison cell, my entire body aching and no idea how I got there. When a bunch of military officers and city guards finally came to talk to me, I found out I had beaten the soldier half to death with my bare hands, and it had taken five of his friends and the bartender to pull me off of him. Even considering I was drunk there would be fines to pay and restitution made to the soldier's clan. There would also be the matter of a formal apology. I spat at their feet and fell back into unconsciousness. The following times were much the same, eventually my commanding officer coming in and telling me about even though I had lost someone dear to me—they had found out about Matilda by this time—that I was disgracing myself, my military career and my clan with my actions. ' It was time you started acting like a part of the dwarven nation again and not as a lost puppy whining for its mammy' they had said to me. That's when I punched him. A good solid hook across the side of the face and nose, sending him back off his chair and getting me beaten down and clapped in irons before he could even pick himself back up. "

" Not much to tell about the days after that. I had some family visit, though most of what they said was that I should still try to plead for leniency and save myself some grief for when the tribunal finally decided my fate. I looked between the words they were saying and I saw they wanted to spare their clan some staining on their reputation too. My pappy wasn't so kind about it.

' Think of your dear mammy,' he said to me the night before the tribunal. ' Not dead two years and already restless in her grave because her son is going to trial because of his over-weaning emotions. Think of her and any of the rest of us you still care about when you stand there before the elders tomorrow. ' "

Daghmor shrugged. " So I thought of my mammy when I stood there under the eyes of dozens of dwarves, of the solider I had beaten, my pappy, brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, the judges. I said I was sorry I had acted the way I did, but I never said I wouldn't have done it over again if I had the chance. Considering my injury, my extended service away from home, and the death of Matilda, they were lenient. Two years in prison, a fine drawn from my family's holdings equal to five percent its total value, and a black mark on my name.

' I would like to address the court, ' I had said after the sentence had been handed down. The murmurings usually following a judgment quieting down rapidly. My family tensed up, wondering what fool thing I would say next and how much it was going to cost them.

' If it pleases the elders, I would like to serve my sentence another way. Take the fines from my holding in the clan, take all of it. Give me the clothes on my back, a sturdy weapon, and enough food for a ten-day. Give me this and I won't approach within sight of the watch fires of Ironforge for fifty seasons, may you strike me down dead on the spot if you see me doing otherwise. ' "

" Self-imposed exile, " Crys said quietly, still finding himself amazed by the amount of individualism and passion the dwarf sitting across from his had displayed. Daghmor just nodded before continuing.

" Aye. The court room erupted into loud debate, but I heard none of it, head bowed and twirling the steel ring they had let me keep in my fingers. After much discussing and hammering of gavels on stone tables it was decided. I had shown that I was remorseful for my actions by giving up my stake in my clan and leaving the halls of my home for a full fifty years. The Darkdelve name would bear no mark on it, and if I returned after those fifty years, I would be welcomed back as if I were a new dwarf. Frankly, I think they were just glad to be rid of me, and thought that my self-destructive tendencies would kill me long before fifty winters had passed. But whatever. I was free of them, free to do what I wanted. I had a pair of guards escort me all the way to Dun Modr, camping in the shadow of the Thandol Span. It was there, sharing my last meal with dwarves from the halls of Ironforge that I had spotted the stick. They had grabbed it and tossed it into the flames and I just as quickly snatched it out, looking at it in a way that must have made my two companions believe I was crazier than they already thought me to be. I traded in the hammer I had been given for some extra coins from one of the guards and set out, not looking back once. "

" In retrospect, lad, " the black-bearded dwarf said, shaking his head sadly, " fifty years sounds like a fine and dramatic amount when speaking from your heart, but entirely too long for someone with any sort of sense in his head. I miss my pappy, my brothers, I miss watching my nephews growing up, I miss the sounds of a hundred hammers working at once in the Great Forge. But here I am by my own choices, be they good or ill. I wandered for years in Lordaeron, doing whatever I could to earn my keep, then all that trouble with the Scourge started up, and I was sort of swept along with the tide. I ended up further away than I'd ever been from my home and with no way as of yet to get back across the ocean even if I could see my family again. And now I'm pouring my heart out to an elf of all people, getting all drunk and sentimental in his tower. A fine end to the tale, " Daghmor said finally, raising his mug in a mock salute and drinking a few long swallows.

" To those that we leave behind, " Crys raising his own glass to return the gesture.

" And to those who do the leaving, " the dwarf added, taking another drink as Crys did.