Lorgan Ogreson threw another one against the ground. His squat, brutal, nearly porcine face was ruddy with fury and wet with crimson, alcoholic spittle. 

 "Gods! Which hell is this we've entered, eh?!"

 He stood over an ornate table, littered with empty silver pitchers. Small puddles had formed on the glossy surface, a rich and fine red wine. Lorgan's shadow swallowed half the room as he shifted and circled the table; bringing each pitcher close to his face before tossing them carelessly to the ground. He snarled at one, in particular, before tipping it back and draining the contents.

 "Wine in every damned room! Wine," he said the word as though it were offensive to him, "is never enough! I've emptied this entire hall and-" Lorgan tossed his head back and let loose a frothing roar, "I WANT TO..." The ogre stopped as suddenly as he had begun, turning his eyes to Brogan, first, then to Brom. The huge man relaxed, visibly, slowly placing the empty vessel onto the table behind him.

 "Silent as the grave...it suits your father better than it does the two of you."

 Lowering himself into a seat, despite the furniture's groaning protest, Lorgan gave the princes a wide smile.

 "Aye, it was a fine blade that they gifted you with. And a fine name, too. Nightsbane. Finer still was the lass. Aye," he said again, with more energy "slender as an arrow, but with tits like my sixth wife had. A shame I'm not the bastard I once was, I might've fought you for her hand, Brogan." Lorgan let loose a booming laugh and slammed his fist on the table.