His head was swimmy and his sinuses full as he knew hers had to be, but it was another stroke of luck they found food in the depths still good and ready for them. Waybread kept well for months, even years with the proper packaging. A bit too convenient though no doubt dwarf prospectors would come back and hold a grudge on them that would last a thousand years, but at the moment he was willing to take that chance. However, despite his sleep addled mind and his immense hunger, he recalled something quite important when she announced dwarven ale. 

"Wait!" He cried suddenly, holding his hands. She stopped as if stricken, wondering if there were greenskins bearing down on them. "If it's dwarf ale, you've got to be careful!" 

"I've had it before!" She said. 

"You've had the swill they serve imperials." Malcador chided her, approaching as he got his bearings, examining the barrels. She did not shy away, clinging to the closest barrel as if it were her child. "Some dwarf ale is merely strong drink yes, but some brews can blind or even kill a man. They're an entirely different species of being. It could very well be poison to us."  

Hannah blinked, regarded the barrel again, and then laughed. For the first sentence she put on airs of a dwarfish accent. "Aye, you'd normally be right. But this is Dungard's Red Eye. It kicks the shit out of you, but it's not lethal." The woman rose up, took out a small knife and began to sedulously uncork the barrel, biting her tongue gently as she worked the adhesive off the wooden top. Malcador felt a surge of relief, but then it fizzled to nothingness. 

"Wait, how do you know that?" He asked her as soon as the top popped off with a satisfying sound. "Can you read khazalid?"

"No," She said breathlessly, brushing a loose fringe of brown hair out of her eyes. "But it's the same stuff the three dwarfs I know down in old town drink. You can tell by the symbol on the side. 'Course they guard it like gold, but I've had a sip or two. Never this much..." She began to chuckle with giddish glee, and shot a look at him. "But I'm not fucking drinking alo-..." 

Malcador had already dipped an old wooden bowl into the top of it and gave her a devilish smile as it came to his lips. "What are you waiting for?" 

She seemed put off for a moment, but it bloomed into a grin no doubt countless men had seen before they were unceremoniously relieved of their gold. 

Aboveground they had been testy with one another. The orcs and goblins and lack of rest of food had seen to that. Belowground, with the dwarf ale flowing, things changed quickly. Ale flowed, food was devoured, lights summoned and unsummoned, Malcador twirling the ball of light through the air to entertain a clapping Hannah. At one point, Hannah was on her back as Malcador poured the ale into her mouth from a precarious floating bottle a dozen feet in the air. Malcador would later recall Hannah giving him marksman's lessons. The powder had dried sufficiently for a few shots, and she guided his hand with hers, whispering him the secrets of proper aim as if they were the words of Nagash's book of the dead. Strong drink often made you lose and regain your sense of self seemingly at random. The next time Malcador could suitably say he was awake, he was hand in hand with Hannah as the two danced between the decrepit crates and insurmountable stone, singing the [i]Legend of Reikwald Max[/i].  

"[i]The Witch Hunters on my tail won't catch me
For I'm Reikwald Max, and they can't match me

By the thirteen fingers of my right hand
I swear they'll never drive me from this land

'Cause watching my backs are the boys from the band
Seven foot Gerd and four-eyed Brand

The Witch Hunters on my tail won't catch me
For I'm Reikwald Max, and they can't match me![/i]"