The Dwarf dumped the remainder of the water in his cup out on the floor, reached out and grabbed one of the two pitchers the moment they touched the table, and quickly refilled his cup with some of the ale. Lucas didn’t even have enough time to grab the handle of the other pitcher before the Dwarf had already downed the entire measure. He let out a loud, satisfied “Ah” as he leaned back in his chair and patted his belly. “That’s the stuff,” he said. “I haven’t had a good frosty one since last year’s winter festival.”

Rather pleased with the way the conversation was going, Lucas had to fake a forlorn expression as he grabbed the pitcher. “That can’t be. That’s too shameful to even think about. I thought you lot were honest, hard-working people doing good for the kingdom. How could it be that you haven’t been able to enjoy beer on your breaks?” he asked.

The Were-Rat next to Lucas grabbed the pitcher right out of his hands and then gestured to Lucas’s cup with a nod. “Let me.”

Ah, right. I forgot the manners here, Lucas thought as he watched the rat fill his 20 oz mug. You can’t pour your own drink if you’re eating with those of a lower class. This never comes up for other players as the equality related missions prevent most players from ever being a higher class than those whom they’re eating and drinking with.

“It can be indeed, for water is cheaper than ale, and our pay is smaller than Fiddle’s spine,” the Dwarf answered, clearly referring to the Were-Rat pouring Lucas’s drink as Fiddle.

“I see. That’s a tragedy. How come you’re getting paid so little? Doesn’t this region produce a lot of food and make money for the Imperium?”

“We produce enough goods for three regions!” the Dwarf huffed. He filled another mug of ale for himself, and the others finally followed suit. “We do all the labor, but that copper-clinging miser keeps all the rewards and pays us less and less each year. It’s a dang crying shame, and I don’t care what the laws say about bad mouthing nobility. I’m saying it.”

“In front of a soldier . . .” one of the two Were-Bears said with a shake of his head.

“In front of a friend,” the Dwarf corrected. “After all, what soldier? Name a wind-up toy tin can that would dress like he does, wearing such cheap armor and going around buying subs drinks? He ain’t your average soldier, and I don’t think he’ll report us. The boost in pay wouldn’t cover all this fine beverage.”

How expensive were the ales? Lucas suddenly wondered. He wasn’t exactly hurting for cash, but he definitely wasn’t eager to shell out a ton on a single quest if he didn’t have to. Lucas sighed. “Well, actually, I am a soldier, but . . .” He paused dramatically and considered how to phrase the next part. “Well, I just can’t stand it either—not seeing that food in front of you. I don’t think I could eat it if someone paid me, much less pay for the privilege with hours of hard work.”