Tarsuria, Year of Severus, 18, I.R., the 63rd day of Spring, The Ardantean Strait
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The night just became merrier after the bombardiers celebrated with Commander Crovar's fleet. The smell of roasted pork filled the air masking the stench of salt and blood lingering on the air. Ghwynmyr sipped his ale, sitting next to Urfaal and the rest of the bombardiers.
They were talking merrily, exchanging stories and jokes that most of the dwarven bombardiers found nostalgic. The rugged dwarves drank and ate with gusto along with their human brothers-in-arms. It was weird, yet a heartwarming moment for everyone involved. It was one of those peculiar moments were everyone sang, laughed and ate shoulder to shoulder, not counting their race nor rank.
