Dwarven Drinking Duel

The rules were simple: a contest to determine who could drink the most—a crude and reckless way to settle matters.

It reminded me of medieval European trial by combat, though this was far less violent. If anything, it had a boisterous, festive edge to it.

Only the dwarves, who adored their alcohol, could have come up with such a contest.

“Hey, did you hear what that twig just said? He wants to challenge us to a drinking match!”

“Hahaha! Has he completely lost his mind?”

The dwarves, known for their pride in their drinking prowess, laughed uproariously, their mockery as hearty as their appetites.

Among all the various races, dwarves ranked among the top in terms of alcohol tolerance. Challenging them to a drinking contest was pure folly.

“What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

And yet, here I was, fully aware of what I was doing.

“What did you just say, you little twig?”

“If you’re confident, why don’t you stop flapping your gums and accept the challenge?”

My taunts struck a nerve with Roxar, whose expression twisted into a snarl. Scratching his face like it suddenly itched, he bellowed into the tavern.

“Baldira!”

Soon after, a female dwarf sauntered out from the back of the tavern, swaying her hips. The onlookers whistled and cheered at her appearance.

“What’s all the fuss about, Roxar?”

“This twig of a human thinks he can teach us dwarves a thing or two! I’m about to show him the error of his ways!”

“Oh?”@@novelbin@@

The woman, the tavern manager Baldira, gave me a long, appraising look.

Her bold makeup, bright red lipstick, and the conspicuous mole near her lips, combined with her full figure, matched the description I’d seen in an illustration perfectly.

Baldira was said to be one of the great beauties of Doomheim.

‘Hmm.’

You didn't buy this chapter

Buy Now (3 coupons)