"[b]Fair enough.[/b]" [i]A rumbling is heard as he clears his throat, and he begins to sing, his voice melodious and surprisingly adept in its cadence.[/i] "[b]Ohhhhh, old man, Michael Finnigan, He grew whiskers on his chinnigan, The wind blew them off, and they grew thin again, Poor old Michael Finnigan Begin-Again.[/b]" [i]He looked to her.[/i] "[b]Pretty simple, that one. Just repeat, each time you get a bit faster.[/b]" [i]The man tends to speak lightly, sing loudly before the roaring flames. A moment passes, and he prepares the next song.[/i] "[b]Here's a fun one: "In Heaven, there is no beer, That's why we drink it here, And when we're gone from here, All our friends will be drinking all our beer.[/b]" [i]He finishes, turning to her and nodding questioningly, an inquiry as to her judgement on the music.[/i]