Male dwarf younglings were notorious for being foolish, headstrong and proud at the best of times. At their worst they were akin to bears; fierce and strong.
Drink only made them worse; it loosened their tongues.
They always laid the blame on alcohol being the cause of their havoc; Thorin lectured the mixed group of younglings but little good it did when tempers within the groups ran so high.
Kili knew that his temper and Gris' loosened tongue were the blame for his current predicament.
Twenty odd male dwarf younglings most not even close to their fiftieth year stood in a cluster. Kili stood feet away, watching as they all placed bets on the outcome of this contest.
Fili refused to bet – having objected to this folly from the moment it had been decided upon.
At his side stood Gris, copper hair pulled back into countless small braids and a beard done in similar fashion.
The large dwarf was swaying a little upon his feet; knife held sloppily within his chubby fingers.
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