The deliberate time wasting of King Zelnesakkk in arriving at any kind of decision with regard to Garg assistance was becoming increasingly stressful for Alan. And Qwenqwo appeared to be feeling the frustration even more than he was. ‘Wars,’ he laughed, ‘are said to be won or lost on the preparation.’ He took a swig from his flagon. ‘Methinks that was penned by the losers.’ The dwarf mage’s strategy was to ease his boredom by exploring the liquors of the Eyrie people. He was adept at it – trust Qwenqwo to discover that they enjoyed a wide range of alcoholic beverages, many of which, to his delight, had been woven into their fondness for ritual. Alan had even caught the Fir Bolg attempting to convince the cantankerous old Mahteman to partake in a pipe filled with baccy – to Mahteman’s hissing indignation, whose use of the leaf was restricted to shamanic purposes. Qwenqwo then confessed to Alan that he was lonely, not merely for his own people but for the company of a woman.
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