"We stout folk like stories. Comes with the closeness of a clan. Especially new stories. If I heard that tale about how me great grandpappy saw the Tarrasque sleeping in a cavern the size of... Out here... Well. That story'll never be told again." Myrna kicks at a rock in the road, and keeps walking. "Ta be honest, I know a bit about why ale makes yer tongue waggle. Alchemically, I mean. Ye wanted to talk about it. Ye needed it off yer flat pointy eared chest." She giggles and pretends to dodge any swings her way. "Alcohol just makes ye stop thinking about what'll happen when ye talk. And dun ye worry yer pretty face into a prune about that mountain. We'll know all about it in the mornin."