Baelion Ironbrow sat hunched over at the corner of the bustling dwarven tavern, nursing a massive tankard of dark, foamy ale he desperately wished he didn't enjoy so much. The tavern's atmosphere was filled with raucous laughter, clinking tankards, and the thick scent of roasted meats and spilled ale—everything he detested, yet frustratingly now loved.

He scowled deeply beneath the magnificence of his glorious, silver-streaked beard. It cascaded down his chest like liquid moonlight woven through steel threads, gleaming almost mockingly in the torchlight. No matter how many times he'd hacked it off in defiance, the cursed thing always returned thicker and more majestic than ever, as if Moradin himself was personally laughing in his ear.

"Ye drinkin' alone tonight, Ironbrow?" called a hearty voice. A burly dwarf slapped him cheerfully on the back, nearly spilling Baelion's ale.

"Unfortunately, yes," Baelion muttered darkly, taking another reluctant swig of the strong dwarven ale, grimacing at how much he loved the taste. The dwarven part of him rejoiced at every sip, while the elf trapped inside screamed in indignation.

"Cheer up, lad!" Another dwarf called from across the bar. "Ye've the greatest beard in the hall tonight!"

Baelion's knuckles whitened around his tankard. "Touch it, and I'll feed you your own boots," he growled, eyes narrowed into fierce slits.

The dwarves burst into laughter, raising their mugs in salute. "To Baelion Ironbrow! The finest beard in all dwarvenkind!"

Baelion's grip tightened dangerously on his tankard. "Moradin," he growled under his breath, glaring upward as if the dwarven god himself was personally mocking him. "I swear, you will pay for this."

But deep down, behind the frustration and fury, a tiny part of Baelion knew the truth: whether he liked it or not, he was becoming something far greater than either elf or dwarf alone—and that thought bothered him most of all.