"Seriously, kid... I don't have time for pranks. So, again, what are two Academy brats doing out here in the dead o' night when that bastard Doyle's been making us jealous with all his drunk calls over the radio about the high-quality booze he's drinking over at ye'r camp?" Sarge asked.
I pointed at the mug in his hand which smelled heavily of honey and alcohol.
"Local fare's not bad." The dwarf took a swig of his beer and then belched loudly in our direction. "But it's no comparison to the imported Vanaheim stuff ye lot get at basecamp."
I let out a sigh. Dwarves. Bloody alcoholics, the whole lot of them.
"I'm sorry we've disrupted your night, sir, but…" Liara spoke in that honeyed voice that made most males blush. From the way Proudfoot's cheeks flushed, I guessed my she-elf companion could produce that same effect on females too. "…we're here on Academy business, which my friend here—"
She pointed her thumb at me.
