The next morning, Wolfe got up off Shorty's floor and cast a cleaning spell on himself before changing his armour spell to the formal Patriarch's Robes.
The twins had carried Petros to bed in the small hours of the morning when he passed out, but the apprentices were still here, scattered on the floor where they fell. They wouldn't be asleep for long, as Shorty was warming up the forges, making the place welcoming for his impending guests, but they were bound to be in rough shape.
As it turned out, four pints of Dwarven Ale and a glass of whisky were enough to put them down for the count. Petros had lasted a little longer, as he was already an old man and well-used to his drink, but even he hadn't dared to switch to the mug for the hard liquor.
"He drinks like a Dwarf, and he's up at first light, before the forge is hot. You know, Patriarch, if you didn't already have a job, I would offer to take you as an apprentice." Shorty laughed.
