handles on the bar, at least they had a pretty good selection of ales.
"A tankard of Manticore, please, landlord."
"Sorry. We don't stock it any more. Well, there's no call for it round here." The landlord gave the bar an extra wipe, by way of making amends.
"Oh. Well, a tankard of Old Organs, then." Ronan had got quite fond of this Orcish brew during a couple of weeks he'd spent in High Meneal, hunting down a group of mountain trolls that had been terrorising the town.
"Old Organs! I used to be rather partial that one myself!" Watal sighed in fond memory. "Problem is, they won't deliver this side of the mountains any more..."
Five minutes later, Ronan was standing looking suspiciously at a tankard of Whitebeard's Flagon, the only beer that the tavern actually stocked. Renowned as the worst beer in the west, Flagon was usually gassy and tasteless. Gingerly, Ronan took a mouthful. Well, there was a surprise! It was even gassier than ever, but actually tasted of something! He tried not to grimace. New vinegar flavour, eh? Still, it was the only beer for twenty miles...
Watal had taken up his favourite gossiping-to-the-customer position, and was polishing an already sparkling glass. (Glass-polishing was the second thing they taught you.)
"Nice evening, sir." Ronan thought of the bitter wind, and the rain that had driven him to seek refuge, and let that one pass. The landlord carried on. "So, what brings you to these parts? On a quest, are you?"
"Yeah, as it happens." Despite himself, Ronan was quite impressed. The old guy was showing a bit of insight. "How can you tell?"
"Ah, a lot of the warrior-types we get in here are on quests. They always have the same expression on their face. Noble, but pissed off."
There was a moment's silence, as Ronan considered this. Thoughtfully, he sipped his beer, and then wished he hadn't. The flavour wasn't improving. Over by the fire, the dwarf turned a page of his paper and started to read about "Lovely Lenya's Night of Passion with Thorin Oakenshield". In the corner, one of the elves groaned gently and held his head in his hands. The other one had fallen asleep. Behind Ronan the salesman was studying him with intense concentration.
"Did any of them ever tell you how... er... how they actually managed to, well... fulfil their quest?", Ronan asked, nonchalantly.
The landlord held the glass up to the light. It sparkled like a diamond. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Just in case, he gave it another polish. "No, but then they wouldn't, would they? None of them had ever done it."
"What?"
"It beats me why you fighting types choose such difficult ones. A Quest for the Holy Wine-bottle of Saint Tim.... or a Quest for the Singing Sword... I mean, it takes a lifetime, and you still don't accomplish it." He put down the glass, and leant on the bar. "Now, if it was me, I'd choose something a bit easier. A Quest for a New Shirt, perhaps, or a Quest for the Tin Opener. That way, you could get up in the morning, have a bit of breakfast, do your quest, and still have half the day left."
Mentally, Ronan counted to ten. The world was full of smart-arses, and he'd often thought that the problem with being a good guy was that you only got to slice up the really evil ones. However, something in his expression warned the landlord he might be on shaky ground, and he carried on hurriedly.
"So... what are you Questing for?"
"Vengeance. I seek Nekros the Black. Do you know him? Big guy. Nasty. Leaves a lot of dead bodies behind him." Ronan tensed slightly. Behind him he could feel the salesman's eyes boring into his back.
The landlord thought for a moment. "Hm. Don't think I do..." He went to the cellar door and called down the steps. "Ethel! Do we know a Nekros the Black?"
"Is he the one who's moved in to number seven?" a shrill voice suggested.
"No, that's Dakros the Thick."
"Don't know him then. Oh, bugger!"
The sound of an enormous crash reverberated up from the cellar. The landlord crossed
"A tankard of Manticore, please, landlord."
"Sorry. We don't stock it any more. Well, there's no call for it round here." The landlord gave the bar an extra wipe, by way of making amends.
"Oh. Well, a tankard of Old Organs, then." Ronan had got quite fond of this Orcish brew during a couple of weeks he'd spent in High Meneal, hunting down a group of mountain trolls that had been terrorising the town.
"Old Organs! I used to be rather partial that one myself!" Watal sighed in fond memory. "Problem is, they won't deliver this side of the mountains any more..."
Five minutes later, Ronan was standing looking suspiciously at a tankard of Whitebeard's Flagon, the only beer that the tavern actually stocked. Renowned as the worst beer in the west, Flagon was usually gassy and tasteless. Gingerly, Ronan took a mouthful. Well, there was a surprise! It was even gassier than ever, but actually tasted of something! He tried not to grimace. New vinegar flavour, eh? Still, it was the only beer for twenty miles...
Watal had taken up his favourite gossiping-to-the-customer position, and was polishing an already sparkling glass. (Glass-polishing was the second thing they taught you.)
"Nice evening, sir." Ronan thought of the bitter wind, and the rain that had driven him to seek refuge, and let that one pass. The landlord carried on. "So, what brings you to these parts? On a quest, are you?"
"Yeah, as it happens." Despite himself, Ronan was quite impressed. The old guy was showing a bit of insight. "How can you tell?"
"Ah, a lot of the warrior-types we get in here are on quests. They always have the same expression on their face. Noble, but pissed off."
There was a moment's silence, as Ronan considered this. Thoughtfully, he sipped his beer, and then wished he hadn't. The flavour wasn't improving. Over by the fire, the dwarf turned a page of his paper and started to read about "Lovely Lenya's Night of Passion with Thorin Oakenshield". In the corner, one of the elves groaned gently and held his head in his hands. The other one had fallen asleep. Behind Ronan the salesman was studying him with intense concentration.
"Did any of them ever tell you how... er... how they actually managed to, well... fulfil their quest?", Ronan asked, nonchalantly.
The landlord held the glass up to the light. It sparkled like a diamond. Not a speck of dust to be seen. Just in case, he gave it another polish. "No, but then they wouldn't, would they? None of them had ever done it."
"What?"
"It beats me why you fighting types choose such difficult ones. A Quest for the Holy Wine-bottle of Saint Tim.... or a Quest for the Singing Sword... I mean, it takes a lifetime, and you still don't accomplish it." He put down the glass, and leant on the bar. "Now, if it was me, I'd choose something a bit easier. A Quest for a New Shirt, perhaps, or a Quest for the Tin Opener. That way, you could get up in the morning, have a bit of breakfast, do your quest, and still have half the day left."
Mentally, Ronan counted to ten. The world was full of smart-arses, and he'd often thought that the problem with being a good guy was that you only got to slice up the really evil ones. However, something in his expression warned the landlord he might be on shaky ground, and he carried on hurriedly.
"So... what are you Questing for?"
"Vengeance. I seek Nekros the Black. Do you know him? Big guy. Nasty. Leaves a lot of dead bodies behind him." Ronan tensed slightly. Behind him he could feel the salesman's eyes boring into his back.
The landlord thought for a moment. "Hm. Don't think I do..." He went to the cellar door and called down the steps. "Ethel! Do we know a Nekros the Black?"
"Is he the one who's moved in to number seven?" a shrill voice suggested.
"No, that's Dakros the Thick."
"Don't know him then. Oh, bugger!"
The sound of an enormous crash reverberated up from the cellar. The landlord crossed
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