The liquid was dark, and smelled sour and rank. Thranduil eyed it dubiously, then took a tiny, cautious sip from the great tankard. He nearly gagged at the bitter taste.
“What is this poison?” he murmured to his son.
Legolas kept a polite smile on his face, though his expression had an edge to it. He raised his own glass and lifted it to his lips, though he took care not to drink. Nodding to the Master of Laketown he lowered the glass again and discreetly poured the contents into an obliging potted plant.
“They call it beer,” he whispered.
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