Book 3: Chapter 62.5: The Guild's Decision
It took several hours for us to untangle all the limbs, get any serious injuries sent out to the [Healers] and calm everyone down.
For a given value of calm.
Master Faucet, for one, was escorted from the room as a blubbering screaming mess. The other Master Brewers had looked away in a modicum of shame.
“You’ll have to excuse Master Faucet. Their brews haven’t been selling well recently, and you are partly to blame for that.” Master Monk sighed when the room was finally silent again. “I would expect him to try a Feud at some point.”
“I don’t think so.” Schist scoffed. “Faucet’s a coward.”
There were only eight Master Brewers left, Guildmaster Malt, Master Blunt, and Master Mcgrist among them. Most had various levels of bruising and torn clothing, and they all regarded us with serious eyes.
“*I* want a bloody Feud, and I’m no coward, Master Schist.” A greybearded dwarf with a copper helm growled. “But I want a full answer from that young dwarf first. What he means exactly by beer, and how he thinks that’s different from tha’ Sacred Brew! Spending on his answer I’ll demand a Feud right now. And damn tha rules - !” He snapped as Master Monk began to interrupt. “They’ve been breakin’ rules worse than a pack of moustachio’s at a hitball game. I can break one, Monk!”
The Guildmaster groaned and ran her hands through her beard. “Are you happy Schist? Look at this! I can barely keep order in my own damn Guild!”
Schist gave her an apologetic smile and held his palms out innocently. She growled in response and turned her baleful eyes on me. “You, Brewer Roughtuff! You can’t cause me much more of a headache, so how about you explain yourself.”