By my estimate she could consume at least a dozen more before succumbing to lethal poisoning.
"Actually, eight's my lim *hic* it."
"Although I imagine that if I followed your example and started poring over you to look for it, the city guard would soon enough for melting me down for scrap."
Mikara giggles as if what Halcyon is saying is utter nonsense,
"Oh that'd neffer happen," She wipes the foam from the last of the seventh mug from her mouth and pats him on the back, her face changing expression instantaneously from mirth to mock seriousness,
"You'd be dead before they got here," she lets the uncertainty hang for a moment,
"Fhat is, iff you c'n die." and then bursts out in a reassuring guffaw,
"I luff you guys." She pats him jovially on the shoulder.
"Where does your soul come from, then, if your body is artificial?"
"His body's not arfifishal," Mikara corrects in a sarcsastic tone,
"it's as real as anfing elfs around here." The statement is intoned to imply that the Hanged Man is so unnatural, it seems ridiculous to call the warforged's body any more unnatural.
On the other hand, Our friend would say often say when We inquired “You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.”
"Hear! Hear!" Mikara raises her empty mug in the air and attempts a draught, then realizing that no ale is pouring out, she frowns.
She turns the cup over and shakes it as if this insane act will somehow, magically restore the flow of ale. Then she turns to the bartender,
"Hey baldie! One more here for everyone!"
The bartender gives Mikara the 'thumbs-up' and presently appears at the table with mugs for everyone...wooden mugs, except for Mikara's which is yet another ceramic copy of its brothers.
"Oh," she turns back to Halcyon and smiles, raising her eighth mug,
"an fhat death fhing. I wouldn' recc'mendit. I done it, an' it's not all it's cracked up to be."
And with that, the eighth mug is drained dry.