The Grumbled Mutterings of a Dwarven Trollslayer as scribed by Diedrich Scheffler
So we enters the Slippery Eel alehouse. Our guide Eduardo (seems a bit of a vagrant but enjoys a beer so that’s fine by me) has led us here, on our insistence, and despite his obvious misgivings. He warned that it’s a bit rough. He he. He’s never set foot into the Angry Axeman’s Alehouse (where instead of searching you for weapons before entering they have a house selection of melee weapons for you to use for your entertainment while there) or spent a night in the Hafted Hammer where you’ll need to arm wrestle the doorman to gain entry (and that’s just the women).
So we enter the bar and get the silent treatment. The look on peoples faces as we enter is colder than an ice brewed ale. And one guy stands as Thorin and I enter and cannot hide the look of disdain on his face. As he spots Thorin and I enter, his disdainful look turns to revulsion as though some Dwarf has just shit in his beer with Thorin and I being the chief culprits. I smile as I consider that though not guilty of such a crime it could easily be arranged.
Reginald (hereunto referred to as shitbag) starts to throw insults. Oh I do love me some beer banter. Bring it on.
Dietrich attempts to flash his ‘winning smile’ across the bar. But fails. He’s ok for a long-arse but sometimes he needs to learn that a brilliant white toothy smile is not the only currency. So I flash my ‘winning snarl’ as I step up to defend the beanpole.
We’re in an angry alehouse and the only currency that counts here is beer and brawn. So I tell shitface to shut up and drink his lemonade while the ‘real men’ drink beer’. His face tells me he’s lost the verbals so his face suddenly changes to ‘I’m going to hit this dwarf’ The look on his face telegraphs the punch he plans, long before he summons up the courage to throw it. I duck under the slow right hook. As his fist sails over my head the uppercut I unleash is almost automatic. The resultant crack of his nose, though predictable, is no less satisfying. He makes a final groan before keeling over backwards with blood oozing out of a clearly broken nose.
“Why is it always the gobby ones that beg to be hit first? But fall over like dominoes when the fighting starts. All mouth and no britches.”
Well with the fighting over seemingly before it begun I guess that makes it beer o’clock.