The moons had risen high above the artificial sky of Ironforge, casting a pale, mechanical glow over the Royal Plaza.
The riotous cheering had finally died down, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic snoring of ten thousand dwarves passed out on the cobblestones. The "River of Magma Ale" had claimed its victims.
Even Leona, the victor of the drinking contest, was currently dozing against the side of a dismantled tank, her tail twitching in her sleep.
Isabelle had curled up on a stack of flour sacks, murmuring about "more spice" in her dreams.
Only a few souls remained awake at the High Table.
King Durin sat slumped on his barrel-throne, his crown crooked, clutching a tankard that was miraculously still half-full.
"You know, boy..." Durin slurred, pointing a thick finger at Damien.
"You fight like him. You have his eyes. But you drink better than him."
Damien, who was currently circulating his aura to burn off the alcohol before it could knock him out, raised an eyebrow.
