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"I swear to Mithros, Numair," Lindhall said, reeling on his stool. Only a quick grab by the other mage, whose reflexes, paradoxically, sharpened when tipsy, saved him from falling clear off his seat. "She's the most beautiful thing in the world."

Numair nodded, plastering his most sincere look of sincerity on his face. He didn't think he succeeded too well, judging by the look Lindhall was giving him, and he suspected he was also being redundant. For good measure, he tried on a smile.

"Mithros, Numair, how is it you manage to win over the ladies with a grimace like that?" Lindhall asked, taking another long swig from his tankard.

Numair was starting to regret going drinking with Lindhall. His smile faded as he registered a faint pounding in his temples; he glared into the depths of his ale. He wasn't supposed to get a headache until after he'd finished drinking.

"Much better!" Lindhall said, grinning at Numair's sullen expression, and damn him, but he actually sounded genuinely cheerful. "The brooding look fits your whole mysterious-mageyness better anyway, Arram. Goes with the whole pretentious name and swoopy black robe and dramatic nose and all." He nearly clocked Numair upside the head with the tankard when demonstrating the robe's supposed swoopiness.

Numair grabbed Lindhall's arm and repositioned it in a safer place, and incidentally dragged the older man's attention back to his unfinished ale. Lindhall sipped it meditatively while Numair ran a finger down his own nose and squinted at his watery - ale-y? - reflection. What, by Shakith, was wrong with his nose?

"Anyway," said Lindhall, thankfully dropping the matter of Numair's dramatic nose and not-so-thankfully going back to his previous topic of conversation. "She's just… She's gorgeous, Numair, just gorgeous. Curves in all the right places," he said, drunkenly motioning in the air in front of him. Judging by the arcs he described, this girl was very well-endowed indeed.

Numair nodded and hummed agreement when Lindhall eyed him suspiciously. Mollified, Lindhall went back to rhapsodizing about his new love.

"She's just … perfect, you know?" Lindhall had the absolute soppiest grin on his face. "Not too big, not too small, sharp as a razor, and, most importantly," he stopped to take another pull of his ale, "she's been with me through thick and thin, all the way from…" Here Lindhall paused, looking around the nearly-empty pub warily. He caught Numair's eye, looking more suspicious than ever, and shrugged meaningfully.

Numair snorted. Had there been anyone still in the room, they would all now know Lindhall was hiding something. "I know," Numair said at Lindhall's meaningful stare. Then Numair's brain caught up with him, and he turned to stare at his old mentor. "Wait. Lindhall?"

The other mage turned to regard him suspiciously, nose buried in his tankard. "What?"

"I thought you came down alone."

Lindhall choked on his ale, sputtered, and dissolved into a fit of laughter that nearly knocked him backwards off the stool. "Mithros, Numair, you didn't think I was talking about a person, did you?" At Numair's utterly confused expression, Lindhall doubled over, pounding the table, and gasped out, "I was talking about my axe!"

That settled it, Numair thought. He was never, ever going drinking with Lindhall again.