Grit, Glitter, and Unwanted Explosions
(A tale of barbs, banter, and borderline war crimes)
The tavern was already on fire when they arrived.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Virellion Duskmire, notorious dark elf, professional liar, and wearer of unnecessarily tight pants, stepped over a broken chair like it offended him.
Behind him waddled Grubble, a goblin the color of envy and twice as loud, dragging a bag that clinked ominously.
“You said we were just here to talk,” Virellion muttered.
“I said we were here to negotiate,” Grubble corrected. “With fire. Like civilised folk.”
“You lit a menu on fire.”
“It disagreed with my dietary restrictions.”
Virellion sighed and swept a dark strand of hair from his flawless cheekbone. “You have no dietary restrictions.”
Grubble grinned. “Not anymore.”
At that moment, a barmaid threw a stool at them. Virellion dodged effortlessly. Grubble caught it with his face.
“Rude,” he said, muffled, before licking it. “Tastes like dwarf.”
They ducked behind a table. Virellion gracefully looted someone’s wallet.
“You’re a walking felony,” he said.
“You’re a prancing tax loophole,” Grubble shot back.
A bottle exploded.
They both turned to look at the bar, now engulfed in multicolored flames.
“I assume you had nothing to do with that?” Virellion asked.
“I will neither confirm nor deny the alchemical capabilities of the shrimp cocktail I stored in my sock.”
Virellion exhaled through his nose. “You ate that cocktail.”
“Did I? Did I really? Or did it eat me?”
There was a pause.
“…We need to leave,” Virellion said.
“We need a llama and a shovel,” Grubble said.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Virellion Duskmire, notorious dark elf, professional liar, and wearer of unnecessarily tight pants, stepped over a broken chair like it offended him.
Behind him waddled Grubble, a goblin the color of envy and twice as loud, dragging a bag that clinked ominously.
“You said we were just here to talk,” Virellion muttered.
“I said we were here to negotiate,” Grubble corrected. “With fire. Like civilised folk.”
“You lit a menu on fire.”
“It disagreed with my dietary restrictions.”
Virellion sighed and swept a dark strand of hair from his flawless cheekbone. “You have no dietary restrictions.”
Grubble grinned. “Not anymore.”
At that moment, a barmaid threw a stool at them. Virellion dodged effortlessly. Grubble caught it with his face.
“Rude,” he said, muffled, before licking it. “Tastes like dwarf.”
They ducked behind a table. Virellion gracefully looted someone’s wallet.
“You’re a walking felony,” he said.
“You’re a prancing tax loophole,” Grubble shot back.
A bottle exploded.
They both turned to look at the bar, now engulfed in multicolored flames.
“I assume you had nothing to do with that?” Virellion asked.
“I will neither confirm nor deny the alchemical capabilities of the shrimp cocktail I stored in my sock.”
Virellion exhaled through his nose. “You ate that cocktail.”
“Did I? Did I really? Or did it eat me?”
There was a pause.
“…We need to leave,” Virellion said.
“We need a llama and a shovel,” Grubble said.
