Generic Fantasy Story
You avert his gaze, quickly turning your attention to the door and answering, "Ale please."
"Any preferences?"
You take a moment to ponder. You never were keen on drinking; your friends had a hard enough time pressuring you to drink and you never really knew what you were consuming.
"Surprise me, sir."
The old man chuckles. "Sir? Nobody calls this old man sir, even though they should."
"Maybe because you're just a senile old man, Josef."
You look to your left and see a disheveled looking man with an unkempt beard grinning like an idiot, literally reeling in his seat as he laughs. "Crazy old timer, can't you see you're giving ale to a kid?"
"Quiet down there Desmond, you drunken Orc!" There's no tension in the bartender's words. In fact, you are surprised to see a smile on his face. "Sorry about that," he says. "That drunken idiot's always picking on patrons of this otherwise respectable establishment. Besides, that stubble on his face didn't start growing in until he was at least twenty-five years."
You raise an eyebrow at them, simultaneously rubbing your smooth chin. The bartender places a mug in front of you, the top overflowing with a startlingly familiar aroma.
"Here you go. Nice ale from the town of Aspenwoode, bless those poor souls."
You hiccup. "Wha-what are you implying, sir? Has something happened to Aspenwoode?"
The old man crosses his hands. "Word is that another Orc Warpath's been started by some upstart Chieftain. Stupid old bastard, aren't they all, but strong enough to overthrow whatever old guard the Kingdom was able to bribe. It's going to be a real shame if those people decide to defend the town."
"Well, perhaps they can beat them off?"
The old man snorts. "Pretty hopeful thinking, in my opinion. City militia's aren't going to last long against a horde of battle-ready Orcs. Hell, I heard some of those Uruk-Orcs from way up North have sided with them. Way I see it, evacuating'll be smarter than defending."
"You forget, sir, that the people of Aspenwoode are a hardy folk! They've been able to fight off countless threats: from beastmen tribes led by Ungor Bloodhoof to Barbary Corsairs led by Umba the Scourge, we've survived-"
You stop mid-sentence and mentally slap yourself across the head. The bartender gives you a strange look; overall chatter in the tavern has grown quiet, even the drunken fool Desmond has turned his attention to you from his vantage point on the floor.
"Where did you say you were from, boy?"
"Any preferences?"
You take a moment to ponder. You never were keen on drinking; your friends had a hard enough time pressuring you to drink and you never really knew what you were consuming.
"Surprise me, sir."
The old man chuckles. "Sir? Nobody calls this old man sir, even though they should."
"Maybe because you're just a senile old man, Josef."
You look to your left and see a disheveled looking man with an unkempt beard grinning like an idiot, literally reeling in his seat as he laughs. "Crazy old timer, can't you see you're giving ale to a kid?"
"Quiet down there Desmond, you drunken Orc!" There's no tension in the bartender's words. In fact, you are surprised to see a smile on his face. "Sorry about that," he says. "That drunken idiot's always picking on patrons of this otherwise respectable establishment. Besides, that stubble on his face didn't start growing in until he was at least twenty-five years."
You raise an eyebrow at them, simultaneously rubbing your smooth chin. The bartender places a mug in front of you, the top overflowing with a startlingly familiar aroma.
"Here you go. Nice ale from the town of Aspenwoode, bless those poor souls."
You hiccup. "Wha-what are you implying, sir? Has something happened to Aspenwoode?"
The old man crosses his hands. "Word is that another Orc Warpath's been started by some upstart Chieftain. Stupid old bastard, aren't they all, but strong enough to overthrow whatever old guard the Kingdom was able to bribe. It's going to be a real shame if those people decide to defend the town."
"Well, perhaps they can beat them off?"
The old man snorts. "Pretty hopeful thinking, in my opinion. City militia's aren't going to last long against a horde of battle-ready Orcs. Hell, I heard some of those Uruk-Orcs from way up North have sided with them. Way I see it, evacuating'll be smarter than defending."
"You forget, sir, that the people of Aspenwoode are a hardy folk! They've been able to fight off countless threats: from beastmen tribes led by Ungor Bloodhoof to Barbary Corsairs led by Umba the Scourge, we've survived-"
You stop mid-sentence and mentally slap yourself across the head. The bartender gives you a strange look; overall chatter in the tavern has grown quiet, even the drunken fool Desmond has turned his attention to you from his vantage point on the floor.
"Where did you say you were from, boy?"