As it turned out, somebody had stocked the cabin with a tankard large enough for one of Cewri’s hands, and so he began to drink.  Being so large, it took significantly more of anything to actually get him drunk.  All the better, then, that they had enough to quench the thirst of an army.  He was in the middle of his fourth when he saw Oryx pour out a libation.  Cewri set his tankard down on the table, propped his elbows up beside it, and crossed all of his fingers so that his bottom knuckles were touching. 

	After a few moments of sitting in silence, he began to sing quietly.  It wasn’t something that the others would understand the words of, but they would understand it from the tone—it was funeral dirge he had learned from the Giants.  It began speaking generally of those great souls who were now long past.  His deep voice began to crescendo as it moved into pieces that he had devised himself, detailing the feats and virtues of all of his lost friends—and of Athklotep, his fallen mentor.  It closed on an exclamation of grief, and bidding rest to those long missed.  A few seconds after finishing, Cewri grabbed his tankard and, knocking his head back, emptied it.  Slowly, he placed it back down on the table.