The Hero, The Pigeon and the Horrible Cunt
A tale of longing, sabotage, and pubic dye gone wrong
DP sat slouched in the darkest corner of Kellen’s tavern, brooding with purpose.
To the casual observer, he might have looked like a man contemplating war, vengeance, or how many skulls he could crack before breakfast. In truth? He was moping. Heroically.
The object of his internal torment? A certain silver-haired Elf with garden-stealing habits, moonlit cheekbones, and the emotional availability of a decorative sword.
Across the room, Kellen was doing his best impression of a helpful tavern keeper, polishing a mug that hadn’t needed polishing since the Second Era. Brinna sat beside him, sipping from her tankard and watching DP with the bemused intensity of someone about to meddle with glee.
“Right,” Kellen said at last. “You’ve been sighing into that mug for ten minutes and not one of those sighs has summoned an Elf. Are you ill?”
“I’m thinking,” DP muttered, hunched dramatically over his ale.
“Oh no,” Brinna replied. “Not that.”
“I’m trying to figure out how to invite someone to dinner without sounding like a desperate werewolf who caught feelings after one flower-sniffing incident.”
Kellen snorted. “Laddie, I’ve watched you wrestle lava demons bare-chested. You can handle inviting one silver-haired priss to dinner.”
“He’s not a priss,” DP muttered.
“Oh no?” Brinna raised a brow.
“What would you call a moonlit garden-elf who sparkles unironically and pronounces ‘oregano’ like it’s a curse?”
“Elegant,” DP said stubbornly. “And maybe... a little biteable.”
Kellen nearly dropped his mug. Brinna choked on her drink.
“You’ve named your feelings, haven’t you?” Brinna gasped.
DP groaned and covered his face. “He has a voice that makes flowers bloom faster. I might be doomed.”
Kellen leaned over the bar. “Then quit brooding and do something about it.”
“Like what? Prance back into his glade and beg for a moonbeam cuddle?”
“Send him a letter,” Brinna said, eyes gleaming. “A proper one. With flair.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Percy can deliver it,” Kellen offered, nodding toward the purple and silver pigeon currently perched on a wine bottle, glaring at everyone like they were beneath his feathers.
“He hasn’t even met the Elf,” DP argued.
“Exactly,” Brinna said. “So he can’t flirt with him. Yet.”
Percy gave a very judgmental coo.
“Tell him about the banshee,” Kellen added. “That’s a romantic evening, right?”
DP blinked. “Which banshee?”
“You know — THC.”
DP stared.
“The Horrible Cunt,” Brinna clarified sweetly. “The one with the name that sounds like an eldritch tax spell.”
“Right,” DP muttered. “Screams in E-flat, breath like vinegar, and—”
“Badly dyed pubes,” Brinna said, raising her tankard. “And lopsided nipples.”
“I’m still cursed from last time,” Kellen muttered, rubbing his side. “Every time I sneeze, it echoes in Dwarvish.”
“I cannot believe we’re discussing this over soup.”
“Write the damn letter,” Brinna said, sliding parchment toward him.
DP groaned and started scribbling.
The Note (delivered by Percy, who demanded a thimble of brandy and three compliments first):
To the annoyingly graceful flower-sniffer with questionable timing and perfect cheekbones
I’m back in the land of firelight and poor ale.
You, me, and a banshee named THC not a euphemism (sadly), just a mission.
Meet me at Kellen’s. Drinks are on me. So’s the drama.
Yours in shared trauma and maybe… interesting glances,
—DP
DP sealed the note, attached it to Percy’s tiny harness, and whispered, “No flirting. No brandy stops.”
Percy gave him a long, slow blink… and pecked his ear on the way out.
Brinna smiled fondly. “They grow up so fast.”
Kellen leaned back, folding his arms. “You think the Elf’ll come?”
DP stared into the fire for a long moment, then smirked.
“Oh, he’ll come. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
To the casual observer, he might have looked like a man contemplating war, vengeance, or how many skulls he could crack before breakfast. In truth? He was moping. Heroically.
The object of his internal torment? A certain silver-haired Elf with garden-stealing habits, moonlit cheekbones, and the emotional availability of a decorative sword.
Across the room, Kellen was doing his best impression of a helpful tavern keeper, polishing a mug that hadn’t needed polishing since the Second Era. Brinna sat beside him, sipping from her tankard and watching DP with the bemused intensity of someone about to meddle with glee.
“Right,” Kellen said at last. “You’ve been sighing into that mug for ten minutes and not one of those sighs has summoned an Elf. Are you ill?”
“I’m thinking,” DP muttered, hunched dramatically over his ale.
“Oh no,” Brinna replied. “Not that.”
“I’m trying to figure out how to invite someone to dinner without sounding like a desperate werewolf who caught feelings after one flower-sniffing incident.”
Kellen snorted. “Laddie, I’ve watched you wrestle lava demons bare-chested. You can handle inviting one silver-haired priss to dinner.”
“He’s not a priss,” DP muttered.
“Oh no?” Brinna raised a brow.
“What would you call a moonlit garden-elf who sparkles unironically and pronounces ‘oregano’ like it’s a curse?”
“Elegant,” DP said stubbornly. “And maybe... a little biteable.”
Kellen nearly dropped his mug. Brinna choked on her drink.
“You’ve named your feelings, haven’t you?” Brinna gasped.
DP groaned and covered his face. “He has a voice that makes flowers bloom faster. I might be doomed.”
Kellen leaned over the bar. “Then quit brooding and do something about it.”
“Like what? Prance back into his glade and beg for a moonbeam cuddle?”
“Send him a letter,” Brinna said, eyes gleaming. “A proper one. With flair.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Percy can deliver it,” Kellen offered, nodding toward the purple and silver pigeon currently perched on a wine bottle, glaring at everyone like they were beneath his feathers.
“He hasn’t even met the Elf,” DP argued.
“Exactly,” Brinna said. “So he can’t flirt with him. Yet.”
Percy gave a very judgmental coo.
“Tell him about the banshee,” Kellen added. “That’s a romantic evening, right?”
DP blinked. “Which banshee?”
“You know — THC.”
DP stared.
“The Horrible Cunt,” Brinna clarified sweetly. “The one with the name that sounds like an eldritch tax spell.”
“Right,” DP muttered. “Screams in E-flat, breath like vinegar, and—”
“Badly dyed pubes,” Brinna said, raising her tankard. “And lopsided nipples.”
“I’m still cursed from last time,” Kellen muttered, rubbing his side. “Every time I sneeze, it echoes in Dwarvish.”
“I cannot believe we’re discussing this over soup.”
“Write the damn letter,” Brinna said, sliding parchment toward him.
DP groaned and started scribbling.
The Note (delivered by Percy, who demanded a thimble of brandy and three compliments first):
To the annoyingly graceful flower-sniffer with questionable timing and perfect cheekbones
I’m back in the land of firelight and poor ale.
You, me, and a banshee named THC not a euphemism (sadly), just a mission.
Meet me at Kellen’s. Drinks are on me. So’s the drama.
Yours in shared trauma and maybe… interesting glances,
—DP
DP sealed the note, attached it to Percy’s tiny harness, and whispered, “No flirting. No brandy stops.”
Percy gave him a long, slow blink… and pecked his ear on the way out.
Brinna smiled fondly. “They grow up so fast.”
Kellen leaned back, folding his arms. “You think the Elf’ll come?”
DP stared into the fire for a long moment, then smirked.
“Oh, he’ll come. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
