[darkstorme]

Galan Iraes was a paragon of Paladin discipline, but he had a peculiarity. Every Freas, he would wander down to the Leringard Arms, and order three pints of Iron Hammer Bock, drawn at once. He would then sit down in a corner booth, and sip at all three while skimming a scroll of notices or scribing something of his own.

One Freas in Augra, Hardragh, moved by curiosity, asked the inevitable question when handing over the three pint glasses. "Y'know, the beer goes flat if you let it sit. Why not let me draw them for you one at a time?"

Galan gathered in the beers and looked across he bar at the man. "When I was a lad, two of my older brothers would take me out to the bar, and we'd each have a draft. One's on Dregar, now, operating out of North Point, and another's doing Toran's work in Arnax, so this one's for me", indicating the beer, "and these two are for them." Everyone at the bar agreed it was a fine tradition, and Galan retired with his beers to his usual table.

This continued, until nearly a year later, the following Mai, when Galan again came into the Arms. "Two Iron Hammer Bocks, if you would, Hardragh." A hush fell over the bar, and a few people turned their heads to look sorrowfully at the blue-and-gold clad figure.

Galan took his drinks to his table, but by and by Hardragh wandered by. "Look," he said uncomfortably, "I just thought I'd offer my condolences."

Galan looked puzzled for a second, then looked down at the beers, and understanding dawned. "Oh, no need to worry," he said. "Mirrim's made me give up drinking - Aeridin frowns on ingesting poisons, it seems."

Hardragh was puzzled. "But, the beers..."

"Oh!" Galan said, "My brothers are under no such restriction."