《The Troll's Bridge Tavern》 Prelude to The Trolls Bridge Tavern Half-eleven in the morning: second breakfast had finished, and it was nearly time for luncheon. Hildago Buttertart of the Bottomtown Buttertarts was nervously pinching the corner of his spectacles as he brooded over his leather-bound manuscript with a steel-tipped pen in hand, fingers stained by ink and tobacco. A terracotta coffee pot and mug of black coffee sat next to him at his table, while his long smoking pipe smouldered its last gasp struggling for breath. He was a young hobbit, unremarkable in every way, with a plain round face and bushy brown hair. He was ambitious this morning. Today the literary genius would flow freely, and he would write his novel. Not any novel; his heroic epic, full of romance and adventure. It would cement his reputation with the other great hobbit authors--all he needed was a magic ring, a terrible dragon, an evil sorcerer, and a band of fearless heroes ready for an impossible task. Where could he find such an adventure for his story? For the past three weeks, Hildago spent everyday from first breakfast through supper sitting at a little booth in the back of The Troll¡¯s Bridge Tavern. He was certain adventure would find him. Familiar with every succulent dish they served, from the stuffed partridge pie to more exciting options like the unicorn veal cutlets or the minced pixie soft tacos served with fairy dust. Known as the finest gastrotavern this side of Middlemost Earth, our plucky young author expected to find the solution to his troubles here between meal courses. Sadly, The Troll¡¯s Bridge catered to an upscale crowd of petty bourgeois professionals, the nouveau riche, celebrity transcontinental steam-powered airship cruise captains, sickly old divorced and widowed noblewomen keen to polish off two bottles of Pinot Grigio in an afternoon, and food critics. Of the patrons, the food critics were the most feared and savage guests more fearsome than any troll or mad wizard.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. At a table to Hildago¡¯s left sat three garullous, fat goblin lawyers arguing about tax codes, insurance and finance while complaining about their alimony settlements to their ex-wives. They were busy tucking away an appetizer of deep-fried fairy wings over pints of Misty Mountain Warrior Lager while they waited for their mermaid sushi rolls. An ogre wrapped in an exquisitely tailored silk waist coat with a green lily pattern, linen breeches, a smart white cravat, and bespoke leather shoes with silver buckles gobbled upon roasted urchin¡¯s feet. He was a leading hedge fund investor who had been a client of each of the goblin lawyers at one point or another, dealing with the complexities of his fast holdings and assets. The ogre was particularly pleased with his urchin¡¯s feat: a speciality, imported that morning, by a dashingly handsome pirate with a prosthetic hook for a hand after he had lost his in an unfortunate fishing accident with a crocodile. (He did not like to talk about it).Free Range Lost Boy roasted au gratin avec jus de jeunesse was advertised on the chalk sandwich board outside the restaurant, and it was a particular favourite that day. Hildago sighed. He was resigning himself to another dull day without inspiration, not a single article or participle written on the page, only another thick smudge of ink, while he mused at his choice between mutton stew, or those delectable mermaid sushi rolls which had this moment been served to the goblin lawyers. They looked positively ravishing. Raising his little, plump hand to try and get the waiter¡¯s attention, an aloof dark elf with a surly sneer who obviously despised his job, he was interrupted by the sound of the great oak tavern door swinging violently open. Bedazzled, he looked at awe upon the team of adventurers who strutted inside the restaurant, resplendent in their majestic and heroic aura. His life would never be the same. The Ivory Tower: Part One Five Years Earlier . . . . Our scene is a dreary castle alone on a mountaintop. It is dominated by a rising white tower covered in ivy. This property is flanked by rain, lightning and thunder. The Ivory Tower, officially the University of Magic (not to be confused with Magic University), is the preeminent academic institution of higher learning for the magical arts, boasting not only the highest in tuition fees, but a rigorous curriculum requiring constant essay writing and massive compendium textbooks offering snippets of thoughts from the greatest wizards from Merlin to Gandalf. Inside the impressive Great Hall, a judicial meeting of the deans has been assembled. Six great wizards each more grey and grizzled than the rest sit at a horizontal dining table looking down upon a seventh sitting in a chair before them. It could have had all the pomp and splendour of a Congressional hearing, except the room was dimly lit by torch light and smelled of the sickly sweet stench of old man¡¯s balls. ¡°Do you deny it?¡± shrieks Dormund, a wan geriatric with sunken features and tufts of white hair bushing out his ears. ¡°I denounce all of it,¡± retorts the lone accused, his arms folded indignantly across his chest. ¡°Denounce, you say?¡± interjects Prospero, the Provost. ¡°Positively so,¡± answers the defendant. ¡°I say this is highly irregular!¡± Prospero grumbles. ¡°Highly irregular!¡± huff the other five wizards in outraged unison. ¡°For one of our faculty to behave so indecently¡­ so disrespectfully¡­ Why, it is an outrage against our entire venerable institution of higher magical learning and research.¡± ¡°An outrage!¡± chants the chorus. The six wizards squint from under their cavernous cowls, clothed in black robes. Hatred and disgust is etched across each old weathered face, the look of an old man contemplating his next bowel movement. ¡°Have you no shame, Silas?¡± Each wizard leans forward to knit their fingers on the table. Silas sighs, mutters a curse, and starts shuffling through his own voluminous robes. His clothes are in direct contrast to the others: brightly dyed in a rare mixture of salmon and orange, they are delicately tailored and decidedly more gay than the sombre black woollen robes of his peers. The time it takes him to find a small apothecary bottle allows the panel to exchange uncomfortable glances with one another. Silas goes to sip from his bottle, only to discover that it is empty. ¡°Rufus!¡± he bellows. Amid grumbles of ¡°disgrace!¡± and ¡°scandal!¡±, an impeccably attired gnome in a charcoal morning coat, blue cravat, starched white linen shirt, mulberry vest with a silver pocket watch on a chain tucked into its breast pocket, smart striped trousers, and black leather shoes shuffles into the Great Hall with determination and haste. This is Rufus; Silas¡¯s butler. ¡°You called, sir?¡± Dormund erupts from his chair, thundering his wrinkled knuckles upon the table. Spittle spews from his lips with each gasping breath as he rants, ¡°This is a breach of procedure! We are in the midst of an in camera meeting to determine your continued tenure at this university, and only faculty are permitted attendance. What is the meaning of calling in your butler at this critical hour?¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. ¡°Thirst,¡± Silas dryly answers. Aside, he calmly instructs his gnomish manservant, ¡°My usual, old boy. Only a whiff of vermouth. One olive.¡± Rufus quickly mixes a classic martini with the skill of an expert bartender. A Boston shaker, ice, glassware, gin, vermouth, olives, and a strainer are plucked with ease from a small bag which could not possibly hold them without some arcane enchantment. ¡°Preposterous!¡± ¡°Highly irregular!¡± ¡°Degenerate!¡± ¡°The man can¡¯t even hold is wand without a drink to steady his hand!¡± ¡°Cut off his grant funding!¡± ¡°Expel him!¡± Silas ignores the wizards. He sniffs, and sips his cocktail. ¡°Quite superb, Rufus.¡± A larger sip. ¡°Yes, exquisite, as always.¡± The beverage is slammed in one final, large gulp before Silas casually tosses the glass over his shoulder. It strikes the floor, each bounce loudly echoed by the great vaulted roof and stone walls, before it shatters into thousands of pieces. Each of these shards continue to rattle and roll before evaporating in a puff of smoke. ¡°My butler, Rufus, here, happens to be, besides an excellent bartender, an alchemist and a tinkerer. I have appointed him as assistant professor of alchemy.¡± ¡°A chemist!¡± Dormund scoffs. ¡°An alchemist,¡± corrects Silas. Prospero sneers. ¡°Science is absolutely pedestrian. You say the man tinkers in mechanical engineering, as well? What backwards waste of resources, and a horrid affront to our prestige, Silas. What good is science when we have magic?¡± ¡°You should try his Manhattan. He can whip up a round of Strawberry Daiquiris in three minutes flat with this incredible device he made¡­ What do you call it?¡± ¡°A blender, sir,¡± answers Rufus. ¡°Yes, a blender! Great piece of machinery. Do you have any idea how long it takes those damn goblins and dwarfs to make a decent Daiquiri? Why, it¡¯s so tedious you just want to turn them all into newts for their incompetence.¡± Prospero shakes his head in disbelief. ¡°I cannot believe what I am hearing. And from you: the Chancellor of our school! This isn¡¯t Magic University, Silas. We have standards!¡± The others nod and thump their hands in unison. ¡°Standards!¡± ¡°Standards,¡± Prospero continues, ¡°Which you obviously are unwilling or incapable of following.¡± ¡°Sack him, I say,¡± blurts out Humphrey, an obese bald grammarian and necromancer who resembles a Supreme Court judge after eating an entire Lost Boy. ¡°Concur,¡± shout the others. Dormund spits, ¡°We can get a new Chancellor. Old alcoholic wizards are a dime a dozen.¡± ¡°He has not published in twelve years, and only written one piddly commentary article to a review of a review in The Arcanum Quarterly three years ago -- and it was a discussion about the breed of the rabbit, and the style and make of the hat to pull it from, not good old fashion decent sorcery,¡± Mortimer offers, the smallest and skinniest of this group with a beard like a billy goat. ¡°When has he last raised an undead ghoul to terrorize the townsfolk? When has he last cursed a king to go mad, and lose his wealth and power?¡± Prospero nods. ¡°This institution depends on generous donations from our alumni, and our corporate donors. Being known to be able to summon a fire elemental which will burn down their castles is good for fundraising!¡± ¡°Fundraising!¡± the rest shout. Rage had been building up inside Silas, and he was now becoming exhausted with this petulant group. ¡°You are a two-penny pimp and a hustler, Prospero. I know you paid a gargoyle to write your doctoral thesis, and the only way you managed to con your way into this college was because your father¡¯s bribes. You have been riding his magical coat tails for the past one-hundred years of your fraudster life, you twit.¡± Prospero looks aghast, and starts to offer a retort before he is cut off by Silas¡¯ growing fury. Silas stands from his chair, pointing a shaking accusatory finger at each old dean in turn. ¡°Mortimer, you could not evoke a fireball to light a birthday cake! Humphrey, you do not know your way between an adjective and an adverb. Simon, no one gives a shit about your boring rants on Gnosticism and hermeneutics, you bastard. Dormund, have you ever thought about trimming your ears? I mean, it is disgusting! Seriously, out of all the old ugly men here, you are the worst.¡± He pauses when looking at Chang. The two of them shared an awkward stare. ¡°Damn it, Chang. I always liked you; but you know what, fuck you too!¡± Chang¡¯s eyebrows raise up in Confucian amazement. For his part, Rufus looks on in horror as he slowly creeps backward from the confrontation. The butler tries to make his escape, wanting no part in this geriatric squabble. The tribunal of mages leap from their seats. Outrage fills the hall like an inflamed ulcer seeping pus and blood. A fatal wound; no hope remained to stop the infection except radical, violent action to amputate the gangrenous spread. * * * The Ivory Tower: Part Two Who started the events of that fateful day? It would take a great witch skilled in divination capable of soothing into the past, or maybe even some weird creepy crippled kid molested by an old man in a tree who likes animals a bit too much, to know exactly what happened. Only Rufus and Silas knew the truth. Blasts of multicoloured energy shot from the wands of six of the greatest published, peer-reviewed department heads in magical academia toward their disgraced, drunken Chancellor. One did not retire from the faculty of the University of Magic; one was retired. A blistering green-blue blast of magical energy shot back at them. Wild-eyed, maddened by delirium tremens, Silas confronted the six most formidable wizards of the age not currently employed by Magic University. (Those people were real showmen: Rabbit in the Hat 101, Coin Behind the Ear 305, and Saw A Model in Two 495 were some of the highest earning tuition fees in West of Middlemost Earth. If you wanted your young wizard or witch to really make it financially in the world with a practical magical education, Magic University was the place to be. Its graduates could count on stable, financially successful careers beyond the useless esoteric and obtuse theory taught in the Ivory Tower). As the seven beams of light collided in the middle, a terrible rainbow doused the Great Hall. It might have made for a grand music festival -- if and only if the necessary and sufficient conditions had existed [copious mind-altering narcotics, abundant cheap alcohol, orgiastic and naked young people zombie gogo dancing to a mad electronic beat], but they did not. This was West of Middlemost Earth, after all, not some drug-fueled Shambala in the West Kootenay mountains of British Columbia. Humphrey was the first to die. A surprised gasp rattled from his cracking lips as the flesh melted away from his cheeks. Swiftly thereafter, his arms fell out of their sockets. Both of his legs shattered into ash, and his torso collapsed to the ground. His popping eyes looked around in bewilderment for several seconds before they bulged out from their sockets. What was left of him slowly melted into a puddle of goo. Mortimer combusted in a ball of green flame. Wailing and flailing, he started to run wildly about the Great Hall. Sumptuous tapestries which hung on the walls for centuries went alight like matchsticks, starting the Great Blaze. His horrible screams echoed throughout the Ivory Tower until the wizard crumpled into a meat ball of charred skin, broiled meat, and cracked bone. Simon turned white; his skin, quickly blackening. Frost enveloped him. Icicles encased his beard, eyebrows and hair. In an instant, he went from warm and alive to a frozen Popsicle which teetered then tottered falling to the ground to explode into broken bits. It was the surreal site of a man shattering into ice cubes: one moment a solid mass; the next, puddles. Chang imploded. As if a miniature black hole formed in his sternum, he started clutching at his chest in startled wonder before everything went crooked. His arms warped and bent, sucked into his chest. The legs were next. Just before his head was slurped through the vortex, he looked squarely at Silas, gasping with stoic aplomb: ¡°Silas, you bastard. I knew you always cheated me at Mancala. He who steals rocks will get stoned.¡± A wry grin swept his handsome old face before his long Confucian beard was pulled down the sink of his chest leading to the rest of him to simply cease to exist: water down the drain. A tiny, spinning black singularity hovered in the air for the fraction of a moment; in the blink of an eye, it was gone. One solitary tear slowly dripped down Silas¡¯ cheek. Damn, he really liked Chang. The rest of them were pompous bastards, but not Chang. He gave him his first opium pipe. Justice, or at least crazy-eyed psychotic revenge, was swiftly dealt with dirty old Dormund. He suffered. Boils erupted across his body, bursting ooze from his skin. Black bloat-flies the size of a 1/4 Gold Dragon flew up his nostrils and into his mouth in the thousands. Rabid trash pandas swarmed him, biting off his fingers and toes. A gang of pissed off squirrels, built like dead lifters, ripped off his hairy ears. Black crows swooped down, pecking out his eyeballs and biting out his tongue. A ferocious opossum emerged from his stomach, all gnashing teeth and slashing claws, happily munching away on his innards. His end was like his life: ignominious, filthy, and inside-out. He convulsed in agony, finally ripped to pieces and devoured by evil little garbage creatures.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Prospero was the last to die. The battle between him and Silas was worthy of an epic written by an eccentric Anglo-Saxon scholar at Oxford. It deserved the story arc, character development and heart-warming coming-of-age tropes of a teenage magical melodrama where youngsters are confronted with evil in the world and the death of their beloved school heroes. Brilliant stanzas in iambic pentameter extolling philosophical profundity, exquisite characterization, and polish written by a bard. Unfortunately for Prospero, the author of his story was a college drop out with no writing talent more concerned with maintaining his heavy daily supply of boutique tall boy craft beers while he waited for ideal powder big mountain ski conditions to bother crafting such a dramatic episode. His death was an act of literary derision. A hoard of one foot tall gremlins suddenly manifested in the burning Great Hall. As a chorus, they chortled: ¡°Caliban! Caliban! Caliban!¡± The raucous continued. It was incessant. Chants of ¡°Caliban! Caliban! Caliban!¡± mocked the old sorcerer. Each one was armed with a pencil, or dice, or a paperback Oxford University Press copy of -----. This little army started to stone Prospero with loner¡¯s dice reeking of shame, slinging youthful angst at him like soggy pubescent tissues. They stabbed him with Number 2 pencils. Hundreds of them beat him to death with ironic allusion. Only the bloody mess of literary standards and integrity, massacred by popular culture, was left of Prospero. He was obliterated by the disinterest of an apathetic drunkard, the wizard Silas: the archscholar whom abandoned civilisation for his own personal self-destruction. * * * The Great Blaze spread from the tapestries to the wooden support beans of the steeple, ripping through the spire. The vaulted roof of the Ivory Tower collapsed in a heap of mortar and block, smashing through the lower floors sending embers and raging flames below. It set the Great Arcane Library aflame. Some of the greatest commentaries on the use of declension, conjugation, syntax and morphology in the history of magic were consumed in the inferno. Whole treatises on the use of gender, infinitives, and the appropriate of nominative and accusative cases in the casting of spells were lost. Great arguments between assistant and adjutant professors, filling entire quarterly journal volumes; and their appendixes with critical footnotes were lost. Even the great tomes on social justice in the arcane world, the identification and analysis of magical privilege; and brow-beating admonitions to conform to occult correctness or risk being turned into an undead ghoul serving the non-magical oppressed were consumed. Pamphlets for the ethical treatment of familiars were torched. The greatest intellectual achievements of the University of Magic were destroyed; never again would the world know such intellectual advancement in the arts of witchcraft. After the Great Arcane Library swept the blaze into a firestorm, the Great Blaze spread to the Great Laboratory of Magical Curiosities. When it engulfed that place, the entire Ivory Tower went supernova. This of course caused the Cataclysm, also known in the few pockets of educated survivors as The Great Exposition. The Cataclysm obliterated most of the countryside, et cetera ad nauseam as one expects from the typical thematic; and structural tropes of the genre. The Golden Age had ended, wizarding folly caused it all, and somewhere the caricature of an old Norse war veteran working as a policeman complained about his great adventuring career being cut down in its prime after he took that fateful arrow to his knee. He would never be an oarsman, much less drink from a skull. Silas managed to escape the Great Blaze, and the Cataclysm with his faithful butler, Rufus, moments before that fateful event. After he slaughtered the Deans, Silas glanced at his gnomish servant; and muttered, ¡°I need a fucking drink, Rufus. I am hearing pixie voices telling me about some Neverland that is either some ephebophile¡¯s petting zoo, or some pirate wonderland ruined by spoiled brats who would probably be better off baked into a stew.¡± He blinked. ¡°Did you fucking see that?¡± Silas gasped. ¡°Merlin¡¯s shriveled scrotum, we need to get the fuck out of here.¡± His shaking hand held his wand into the air before the old man pissed himself, shouting: ¡°Deus ex machina!¡± They were instantly transported away to safety. Silas had crafted his most difficult spell: one which touched upon the authorial, blending his world and the Other. The Trolls Bridge Tavern ------ Present Day . . . Olaf the Ogre was gorging himself as usual, munching on the daily special with his typical relish. Out of all the regulars, he was the most generous tipper in the entire Troll¡¯s Bridge Tavern. Olaf had standards. He expected impeccable service, local or freshly imported ingredients, copious mead and blood ale, and would not hesitate to batter an annoying guest or useless waiter to death for his own satisfaction. Numerous discussions had been made about his suitability as a patron, but he spent big and tipped extremely well: what were a few expendable visiting dark elves on their gap year holiday from the Underdark, or the occasionally annoying dwarf merchant whom had to be expended to secure his repeat business. Rufus loved Olaf. He thought he was a gentleman, one of the last great culinary patrons, whose grace and style could only be challenged by the most uncouth. Every time Rufus had an awful tab where some pretentious High Elf, or a greedy goblin, refused to tip him his well-deserved 20%, Olaf was happy to come by and munch on their brains for his ¡°second desert.¡± For his part, Olaf respected Rufus as an excellent bartender, and he was happy to cannibalize those 0% to 5% cretins. The Tavern was slow tonight. Only that weird hobbit, whose ridiculous name no one could remember, kept sitting by himself getting obliterated off tipplers and munching on the smallest appetizers not generating a sufficient net tab to garner a decent tip. Notwithstanding, he seemed to be a decent, if not odd, guy -- he always tipped 18%, not great but not terrible, and he generally kept to himself without being too demanding. Rufus gave him a pass, but he would let the new Dark Elf waiter Chuck serve him tonight. After the past several weeks of the little guy asking him for introductions to ¡°adventurers,¡± or ¡°heroes,¡± Rufus realised he was wasting his time serving this odd-ball halfling. It was best to serve him his drinks when he wandered to the bar, yet let the junior staff serve his table. He got his tip-out anyway, so why should he bother with serving a cheap hobbit? Give him a rich, fat ogre self-made millionaire who appreciated fine cuisine; ate half the menu (and sometimes the other guests); always tipped well and was gracious to those who deferred to him, over some pipsqueak or weird backpacking adventurer any day of the week. Aside from Olaf the Ogre, the typical consortium of Glub, Globble and Grumble LLT. were in conference at their standard table reserved every Tuesday at two o¡¯clock. They had a routine late luncheon scribbled in the books every week which always caroused into dinner, sometimes they stayed late until dinner (even close, you could never predict the ability of a goblin to throw back booze), but they were standard 15% tippers on generally large tabs. Initially, Rufus was resentful when he learned that they were able to file their dinners as business expenses: he became angrier when he learned that they were able to expense some of them to their clients; but he eventually learned to come to terms with it. They were guaranteed income, and he swiftly learned to abandon his own morality to try and jack up every expense and up-sale possible for their table. Goblins were misunderstood. They required boundaries and limits, felt themselves the masters of the universe, but they were really just fat ugly little gremlins who managed to succeed past the rest of the pack. Capitalism has its merits, and Rufus certainly never complained. He was more interested in trying to perfect his greatest invention: the blender. As this casual night went along, the weird hobbit trying to scribble away, Rufus heard Uthlith, the newly hired Dark Elf who may have been living in an alleyway, grumble, ¡°Is this restaurant always this slow? I have alimony payments to make after my ex-wife took the cave, and my bat-hunting business. God, I hate that little nerdy munchkin and those goblins. The worst is that fucking ogre. Do you see how he just throws child bones on the floor? Who is supposed to clean that up?¡± Rufus was working on his new cocktail, tinkering away. He did not look up. ¡°Did you not hear me, gnome? Who the fuck is supposed to clean that mess up?¡± Uthlith repeated.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. Still focused upon his latest creation, a delicate alchemical concoction infusing mint and elderflower with gin, his new creation he was calling "soda water," and a touch of Disaronno, Rufus murmured, ¡°You are.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°You are.¡± ¡°Minotaur shit. Not a chance.¡± Rufus sighed. ¡°Just do your job, or I will feed you to Olaf the Ogre. He tips me 35% and is a perfect gentleman. Never talks business, only his interest in classical art and music. Absolutely great guy.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I will feed you to Olaf the Ogre. Go do your damn job, and bus your tables. That Orc couple, Gulag and Moblug, specifically made that table as part of their reservation tonight. They love the view of the sulfur and torture pits. He told me that he is going to propose marriage to her. Make sure Chef knows that we need more horse-flesh and man-meat tonight. He tips 25% -- I have a bottle of elf blood infused wine from the Nefarious Estate Winery, fermenting for 10 years before the Cataclysm, waiting for them in the cellar.¡± ¡°You pathetic little gnome, how dare you speak to me like that. Do you not know that I have a First in Drow from the Underdark Academy before I came to this shitty country?¡± Rufus sighed. Every year, another batch of these uncouth dark elves came from the Underdark to see the world; yet they were the worst tourists. They spent all their time underground at awful nightclubs, filling their faces with whatever amount of pixie-dust -- whether it was pure or not -- that they were able to wrangle off their dealers, and kept insisting the civilized above world correspond to their subterranean standards. In town, they were known as Boguns. ¡°Just do your damn job,¡± Rufus sighed. At this point, the door burst open and the most heroic group of adventurers which had ever graced this part of Westernmost of Middlemost Earth strode confidentially through the threshold. They were marvellous. Beyond compare. A slice between a pornographic modelling orgy, and a heavy-man lifting acting competition. The entire restaurant gasped in amazement at their beauty and splendour, and poor Olaf the Ogre actually chocked on a piece of talus bone for a few moments before he hacked it up onto his plate. This was the famous Silver Company of Heroes. They were renown throughout the twelve kingdoms as the greatest band of adventurers West of Central Middlemost Earth, and they burst in with purpose. Hair waving majestically in the afternoon breeze, muscles gleaming with oil and sunlight, and weapons brandished; they came for a purpose. ¡°Olaf the Ogre, your time has come! As for the rest of you monsters in this vile den of horror!¡± shouted their leader, Valerian the Noble, a tall handsome nobleman with flowing dark hair and shining armour. The papers called him the greatest swordsman of the age. ¡°Surrender now, and we shall be merciful,¡± he added. Rufus was furious. He had not had a chance to ask if anyone wanted desert, little alone collect the cheques. ¡°Excuse me?¡± piped the little gnome. ¡°Do you have a reservation? We have a dress code,¡± he added, glancing at the beautiful barbarian woman wearing only a loin cloth, her heaving golden breasts exposed in the glaring sunlight washing in from the door. ¡°We can¡¯t let you in if you are not properly attired, my apologies,¡± Rufus continued. ¡°We do have courtesy dinner jackets available if you like, but I have a full wait list tonight.¡± The little gnome grabbed a few menus, heading swiftly toward the door. ¡°If you would like to look over these, I can sit you at the bar; and we might be able to see if a table becomes free.¡± Valerian slapped Rufus with the back of his left hand across the face, knocking the gnome to the floor in a tumble. He shouted, ¡°Silence, cretin! We are here to deliver justice!¡± It was at that moment -- the fateful slap, with Rufus tumbling over and somersaulting backwards -- that Silas woke up. He had been passed out in the very corner booth of The Troll¡¯s Bridge Tavern, one table next to that weird hobbit Hildago Buttertart, droop slathering down his face and clothes. The sound of the slap made his blood-shot eyes open, and he glowered at the door. To his right, that strange little halfling was ecstatic with glee. He positively started jumping up and down on the leather cushion seat in his booth, clapping his hands and shouting, ¡°Adventure! Adventure! I found it!¡± Silas stumbled out of his chair, knocking over an empty bottle of S¨¦millon. He pushed the hobbit over, muttering, ¡°Shut up, you little fool. Hide under your damn table or I am feeding you to Olaf the Ogre. He owes me a favour.¡± ¡°Hey, prissy boy,¡± Silas burped. ¡°Why don¡¯t you take your anti-ogre racism out of here before you get hurt?¡± Silas shouted at Valerian. The band of heroes let out a hearty, deep-bellied laugh. ¡°Go back to sleep, grandpa. We are here to meet justice to the wicked, not to take you back to your retirement home,¡± Valerian answered. ¡°Retirement home?¡± Silas replied. ¡°Retirement home!¡± Silas pulled his staff out from the seat next to him, his eyes glowing a brilliant turquoise, and he shouted, ¡°Let¡¯s talk about retirement homes, you pomaded motherfucker!¡± If Hildago Buttertart wanted to be involved in an adventure, the actions of the next several minutes would guarantee his place in the history books.