From the journal of Fori.
Blimey, more immigrants? All these new mouths to feed are keeping me busy at the fields. I haven’t had as much time to devote to my brewery as I would have liked. Our food stocks aren’t what I would have liked already, ever since that fire burnt down my fields above ground. Still, I can’t complain really, we got some fresh seeds from the elves that I’m looking forward to planting. I’ll get some crops growing in no time. And I look forward to trying my hand at brewing some of the surface plants, rather than just more Dwarven beer and ale.
Speaking of those elves, is it just me, or does it seem that every one of those tree hugging, pointy eared pansies have one of their beloved trees stuck where the sun doesn’t shine? I can’t stand listening to their haughty, arrogant, holier-than-thou speech, so blasted flowery and wordy, and dripping with contempt. They won’t just come out and say what they want, but have to dance around the subject and try to be subtle about it. Still, credit where credit is due, they can brew a darn fine wine. But I could do better, I wager. Just wait till those crops crow, and I’ll brew a drink so strong that it would grow beards on even those bare elf faces.
I wonder if it’s these elves that caused Zerris’ strange worry. I’m concerned about him. He spoke about our defenses, as if he expected a siege or something. He then grabbed one of the barrels of dwarven wine and locked himself in his office. Well, if a siege is coming, I’ll make sure that starvation won’t be our enemy. Nor soberness for that matter.
Heh, I wonder what an elf would be like drunk. I might spike their water while they're here, just to find out.