"Not even dreeams are safe from yooooooou. I alooone remain the saaame, when there's nooo one else to blaaaaaaame. Yet I haaad to ask, if ooonly so I'd aaalways know I haaad..."
A white-haired dwarf came over the hill with the corpse of a deer in one hand and a bloody rock in the other. He sang, in a voice like the smoke of a wagon after the canvas goes up in flames, as he walked along the well-trodden dirt that passed for Main Street in the ancient and venerable City of Graspedseduce.
Capital of Dastot Cog, framed by ancient goblin towers of pure obsidian, it was said to be the only city in the world with a constant hangover. Before rising to power, the elves and humans of the land had long since adopted the dwarven habit for drinking, which is to say it was preferred to water ten times out of ten and the children were born with a healthy appetite for it.
Dwarves seldom built taverns, since most dwarven fortresses are, in essence, great dusty taverns with overstocked pantries and excellent ale but nary a serving wench. Long ago, when Dastot Cot defeated the roving goblins and conquered Graspedseduce, the newly-freed humans needed a place to drink and address other bodily needs. Hence, the Inn of Seduction was built and disdained by most dwarves, who viewed the place as a grown man might view a child-sized gingerbread house.
Still, by local standards it was an upstanding establishment, with only a slight layer of grime on the cups and bedbugs that were relatively polite. One could find it filled with patrons at any hour of the day, and the old clock tower tolled the noon-o'-clock chime when a strange dwarf stepped into the tavern and gradually attracted the stares of everyone within. His beard was impeccably groomed, naked though he was aside from a few exceptionally hirsute patches of skin. Tracking mud with his bare feet, still carrying the expired buck, the stranger approached the bartender, who was presently squeezing a zit on his upper chin and wiping the goo on his trousers.
With a great heave, the stranger plopped the deer's carcass across the counter, the immediate effect being a bloody mess spilling onto the floor from the animal's mouth. A nearby elf looked scandalized. The stranger looked at the bartender with eyes dark as pitch. "Beer," the dwarf said hoarsely.
The barkeep looked at the fresh kill, figured it was worth at least a few silver in meat, and filled a flagon from the tap. He filled a mug and passed it to the naked dwarf, grabbed the deer by the antlers, and dragged it outside to the adjacent butchery. The dwarf dropped the bloodied stone on the ground and drank desperately from his cup, then threw it away in favor of drinking from the flagon directly.
It was only a matter of time before someone would strike conversation with such a novel fellow, and before long one of the Inn's more flamboyantly dressed customers approached the dwarf, who had already drained his pitcher and was reaching over the bar in order to fill it.
"Excuse me, sir," said the man, rather certain about that last bit. "My name is Estun, and I—"
"How do you work this?" the dwarf asked, fiddling with the keg tap. "Ah, there it goes."
"—Right," said Estun. Estun was a newly popular sort of doctor that specialized in the analysis and containment of psychotic dwarves. He was a Psycho Analyst.
"Anyway," Estun continued, "I—"
"Lur," the dwarf interrupted.
"—Pardon?" said Estun with a quizzical look. The dwarf finished another gulp and wiped his mouth with his arm.
"My name is Lur," the dwarf said gruffly while he leaned forward to fill another pitcher. "What do you want? I'm in no mood for parlance."
"Ah." Estun was still smiling. This type of rude behavior was common in his profession and he'd learned to react to it with practiced patience. "Well, Lur, I was wondering where you came from."
"A time before time, a space before space," said the dwarf, after guzzling his fourth draught. "I get three more, yeah?!" he shouted to the barkeep, who nodded back at him nervously.
"I see," said Estun, who was nodding for a different reason. "I was wondering, Lur, have you ever heard of Battlefailed?"
Lur started laughing into his drink. With a soggy beard, he turned to Estun and smiled, and said, "I've heard of it."
"Have you come from Battlefailed, Lur?"
Lur poured the last of the booze into his mouth and said, "No, Estun. I did not come from Battlefailed, Estun. In fact, you can stop talking to me anytime you see fit, Estun, because I'm not mad, and I didn't lose my clothing on purpose, and you are profoundly annoying."
Estun kept smiling. Lur the Dwarf stood up, leaving an aromatic smear of blood and sweat on the seat, and strode toward the door. "I'll be back with more food!" he announced to the tavern as he went, trying to remember where Graspedseduce kept its fashion district.
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Topic: FailCannon: No Rest for the Wicked (or anyone else) (Succession: Battlefailed 2) (Read 895313 times)