They spent the rest of their coin on food and drink, more servings of weyr dove and baked apples, little flakey cookies with rich cream dollops on top, crispy pan-fried mushroom caps served with a thick spicy sauce, warm black beer bread with huge bowls of honey, until they were so stuffed they could barely stay on their stools. Belgryn spent the night crowing to the regulars about well-mannered foreigners with deep pockets and extolling the virtues of traditional dwarven cuisine. By the time they were ready for bed, all four were smashed and singing dwarven drinking songs along with half the bar. It turned out there was no last call in a dwarven bar, but a sudden flare of dawn filtering in through the hall door was enough that Erin dragged the others away from the bar and up to their rooms. They’d opted for two rooms with double bunks, agreeing Erin and Layla should take one and Rory and Jack the other for now.

Jack woke up in a bed, confusion settling in as he fumbled for his alarm. Was he late? Rather than his desk, his hand found the rough leather of his scabbard. His bleary eyes cracked open, taking in the slash of soft light filtering in between the mostly drawn curtains and through the frosted glass windows. He groaned, the night hazily coming back to him.

“Rory… did we die?” he half-groaned, half-laughed. “My head is telling me we died.”

“Shut up, Jack. It’s not time to be awake yet,” Rory’s voice jumbled out of the side of his mouth, head half-buried in his pillow.

“Pretty sure it’s around noon, Rory,” he mumbled back.

“Unnnnggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” the bellyaching slowly faded away as Rory buried his face back in his pillow.

In the next room, Erin was dressed in her breeches and blouse and was slowly pulling on her gambeson. She shook her head and ran her hands through her hair in an attempt to, only somewhat successfully, comb out the night-after bedhead. Across the room, Layla was still in the arms of oblivion, laid catacorner and upside-down across the bed, limbs splayed at questionable angles and one leg draped over the headboard. Her blanket and pillow were bunched over her head, and her clothes were hanging from various points in the room. Rather than make Jack’s mistake, Erin simply chuckled and headed downstairs. Belgryn was nowhere to be found, but the bar was tended by a dwarven girl that seemed no older than fifteen.

“Mornin’ miss. Breakfast?” the girl chirped and flashed a smile that could give Rory a run for his money.

“What’s on the menu today?” Erin returned the girl’s grin and took a stool.

“Thick-sliced cairn boar bacon, ground dornas and boar sausage links, deep fat-fried eggs, leftover crispy mushrooms, and toasted beer bread with honey an’ butter. Based on what I heard ‘bout ya last night, shall I just put a lot of everything on a platter and bring it to ya?” she grinned again.

“Well, we spent the last of our coin last night,” Erin frowned.

“Oh, it’s na a problem. Da said ta open a tab fer ya til ya could make it to the market an’ sell yer loot,” she spoke over her shoulder as she began pulling a platter and mug down from the bar shelves.

“Well, tell him I said thanks, and yes, I’ll have some of everything,” she smiled.

The stairs creaked as Jack’s hobnail boots clacked against the planks, “What’s for breakfast? Oh… wow… I feel overdressed now.” As Erin spun on the barstool, her ponytail swirled out and caught the shimmering golden light from the crystals in the ceiling, causing Jack to stop on the last step with a stunned stare, “I mean… you… look… real pretty, I mean, nice, I mean… fuck.”

She nearly fell out of her chair laughing at him, “Jack, I’m clearly less hungover than you, but I still look like a collie that stomped through a cow pasture in the rain.”

“No, you look beautiful, I mean, ah fuck. Why is this so hard? I’ve known you for almost two years,” the leather of his gloves creaked as he clenched and unclenched his hands.

“Shut up,” she hopped off the stool and planted a kiss against his cheek, then started unbuckling his cuirass. “You don’t need all this shit for breakfast, Jack.”

“You don’t know, there might be dire rats in the basement, or goblins might knock the door down, or the Inquisition might show up to stick pikes up our butts,” his face grew progressively redder as she persisted taking his armor off.

Finally, having grown tired of his yammering, she grabbed a handful of his mussed, dirty blonde hair, and crushed her lips against his. He froze, still as a rabbit confronted with a wolf, until she pulled his cuirass off and pressed herself against him. He melted against her, a soft sound escaping his lips, and his hands found her back. Her hand uncurled from his hair and trailed down his ear into the short beard he’d grown since they’d arrived.

She pulled away, leaving him with his eyes still closed, and smirked as he slowly pulled himself back together, “I knew that would shut you up. Don’t shave the beard. Mmmm.” She wiped her lip and hopped back onto the stool, still holding his breastplate. She thumped it down on the bar and patted the stool next to her. “Don’t make a girl wait, Jackson.”

He sat down.

“Same as the miss, lad?” the dwarven girl snickered.

“Yeah, sure, whatever she’s having is fine,” he replied, still dazed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name, ma’am.”

“Dinnae give it, but it’s Igrin Ironmane, daughter of Belgryn, clan Mountainheart,” she recited, almost a sing-song cadence.

“That whole thing? Or can we just call you Igrin?” Erin laughed.

“Aye, ya can just call me Igrin,” she stuck her tongue out at Erin and disappeared into the kitchen.

Breakfast was excellent, but it wasn’t the orgasmic flavor explosion of the previous night. When Igrin ducked into the kitchen again, they conferred about the difference.

“It’s because she cooked it,” Jack stated.

“Oh, c’mon. That’s a little mean, don’t you think?” Erin hedged.

He laughed, “No, I mean I can tell the quality of the food because of my Appraise skill, and it’s literally a lower level food. I’m pretty sure Belgryn’s has more levels in Cook or Innkeep or whatever his class is than the four of us have all put together.”

“Oh, aye. He’s a right master, me da,” the dwarf had appeared a foot from Jack’s elbow, having snuck around the bar when she heard the two whispering.

“GAAAAHHHH!” Jack erupted, stabbing himself with his fork in the lip and nearly losing his seat.

Erin had seen the dwarven girl poke her head around the bar a few seconds before and had been struggling to keep a straight face the entire time. She finally lost her composure and snorted the thick red juice they were served right out her nose.

-----

After cleaning up and finishing their meals, they trudged back upstairs to rouse their respective roommates. Rory was easy to convince when he found out there was bacon and tea, but Erin roughly threw Layla into her chemise and skirt and hauled her over her shoulder down to the hall.

“She’ll have bacon and bread, and probably… do you guys have coffee?” Erin tilted her head.

“Wot’s coffee, miss?” Igrin turned from the mugs she was wiping down.

“Umm, you brew it sort of like tea, comes from a bean. It’s hot, a little bitter, strong, wakes you up like a very strong tea?” Erin stumbled through the description.

“Oh, na, we don’t keep it. Dwarves get the runnies when they drink elderblack bark tea. Dunno why you’d think it was a bean, though,” she mused as she continued to wipe down the bar.

“Elderblack bark tea. So, it’s a tree, and you steep the bark, and it comes out black and a little bitter?” Jack leaned in.

“Na, usually grind it up and pour boilin’ water over it, through a sieve, like. Elves and humans love the stuff,” she finally finished her cleaning and tossed the cloth into a basket near the kitchen. “They’ll have it in the plaza, packed up in little cheesecloth baggies or by the stone.”

“Twenty pounds of coffee?!” Rory nearly spit out his tea.

“Wot’s a pound?” Igrin asked.

“Oh, it’s a unit of weight. Roughly the weight of, say, a loaf of your bread,” he answered.

“Twenty, pfft,” she exhaled, almost a chuckle. “Na, a stone is the Empire’s weight. Ev’ry business has to keep a set on hand. See?” she pulled out a wooden case the size of a shoebox and removed a block of stone the size of Jack’s fist.

He hefted it, “Feels like about two or three pounds.”

“Ya also have half and quarter-stones,” she lectured as she pulled out two more of the blocks, which were separated into halves and quarters. “They make em smaller, but da won’t sell anything smaller than a quarter-stone.”

“So, the Empire makes these?” Rory hefted the half-stone.

“Aye, the Bureau of Letters sells ‘em, but the actual stones are quarried from the mountains east of the capitol. Only the Empire can mine the stone from that quarry, an’ the whole mountainside is protected land. Don’t want anyone fakin’ their stones, I guess. Also, it’s a might serious crime to shave or chip yer stones, but the Bureau’ll replace ‘em for cheaper than they cost new.”

Rory’s eyes glinted in the honeyed light, “Thank you, love. You’ve been very helpful. Time to go shopping, mates.”