[ … Perhaps there's hope for dwarven manners afterall. Surprised, yet pleased all the same, he murmurs his thanks and then falls to silence in favor of reaching for his mug. The brew cannot hold a candle to that of a hobbit's – they do excel immensely when food and drink are involved – but it's fine on its own. Still, he takes his gulp and then spends more time with it set upon the table, his fingers encircling the base.

Thump. Tap. Tap, tap, thump. The drumming of his fingers is incessant; the sound of them a fleeting annoyance even to himself, but one he can't bring himself to quell either. All things considered, it's minor when compared to the assortment of voices and the clinks of mugs, everything blending until there's nothing distinguishable beyond static noise. It should be fine. To sit as they are, listening to others while polishing off their own drinks, but well-- ]

Hm. I have never seen so many big folk in one place before. [ Oh no. Small talk. Recluse as he had been prior to what will now be referred to as the dwarven incident, Bilbo is very much a hobbit and nonsensical, meaningless pleasantries is a way of life. Commenting on a lass' new bonnet, complimenting fresh paint on one's round door, musing on impending weather; such talk is a habitual itch always needing to be scratched and Bilbo can't help but fill the empty air at their table. ]

Well, hm, there were the elves... but-- were there as many? [ He's staring down at his mug, features tight as he thinks back and tries to remember. ] I must say they were far quieter. [ There's a clatter and a curse at a nearby table; possibly from a knocked over mug. ] Cleaner too.

[ … Great topic choice. Where had he intended to go with this? ]