I hate when people make me think. Now I can’t decide if I’m embarrassed or I just accept myself for being worthless. It’s better than thinking about the pain in my legs. It must be a pretty good sight to see a man walking down the road with beak marks up and down his legs. I’m glad I didn’t listen to that fairy. If I can’t even kill 10 pigmits, I most certainly can’t help anyone…
This walk to the tavern feels too long.
“Please help us, and we will help you.” A soft familiar voice echoes in my head.
Is it the fairy? How in the world is it still alive? I crushed it with the bottom of my foot. Also, how does it know I’m thinking about it? I must just be imagining this. I shake my head to calm my thoughts.
“I can hear your thoughts. I will heeeeeeeeeeeelffff” I snatch the fairy in mid-sentence again. I’m tired of this and just want to wallow in my sorrows. If it can read my mind it already knows what is coming. I take my opposite hand and draw a large club with a grip for both my hands. I leave it an arm’s length away with the grip at mid chest.
I toss the fairy into the air and grab the handle of the club. I keep my eye on the fairy as I swing the club as hard as possible. CONTACT! Why couldn’t this have happened earlier with my anvil? I watch as the fairy flies into the sky and hopefully out of my life.
I’ve heard stories about great heroes who are asked countless times to go on a long dangerous journey to save a few lives. Not me. I’m content with being worthless. I earn enough to live, and I want to live safely. All this talking in my head has made the time pass. I can see the tavern!
I open up the door and take a big whiff. The smell of stale ales and poorly made food runs through my body. I feel at ease. Ah, my seat at the bar is open also! Life is good again. I make my way to it while yelling to the barkeep, “Hurly, my man, can you pour me a Stil??”
“You know, Christian, you Dramti are the only ones who still drink this junk. I’m about to stop selling it. Why can’t you just drink an ale or wine?” Hurly’s tone isn’t friendly, but I know he likes my business. Honestly, I would love to drink ale or wine, but one flaw of the Dramti is our inability to handle alcohol.
During prohibition there were many Dramtis who made a fortune selling Stil. It is a suitable nonalcoholic drink that quenches the need for alcohol without getting any of the benefits. Unfortunately, once prohibition ended most of the Stil distilleries switched to ales, wines or mead. The ones that remain open are barely staying afloat with the current Dramti population. Even at that, half of the Dramti don’t spend our money at the tavern because they feel it is a waste. I, on the other hand, love to drink!
“Hurly, I’ve told you this before. A swallow of alcohol with get me drunk and I am not powerful enough to defend myself here.” It would be nice if I had something going for me.
Hurly brings me a large glass of Stil. The bright orange color is different than most drinks you can get at the tavern. It is a sweeter drink with a small bite at the end. Once you get past the smell of metal, you are treated with one of the most delicious drinks on this planet!
I drink it slowly because I can’t afford to get another one today. This is way too good. I wish it was prohibition and this stuff was cheaper than hay. I hold the drink up to admire the color.
Before I know it a pair of arms is wrapping around me. “STOP” I yell, but it is too late. One of the arms slams into my hands and knocks the Stil to the bar. I do my best efforts to suck up as much as I can from the bar, but there has been a certain funk added to the taste.