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If you die, you’re on latrine duty for a month!”
That was when he felt it. Before it even happened, Richter knew it was coming. It was like he was suddenly gifted with the power of foresight. Even with this sudden awareness, he was too slow. By the time he had turned back to the crowd, the perpetrator was hidden amidst the hundreds of people gathered for the feast. The echoing call still hung in the air though, the mocking invitation of a quest Richter intended to complete… “GNOMES RUUULLLLLEEEE!!!”
Richter reached into his Bag of Holding and grabbed the farm implement with one hand. With the other, he pulled the dagger from his belt, scabbard and all. “My people! There is something you have to know! I have a fever… and the only cure…” he held the item in his left hand high, for all to see, “... is more cowbell!” By popular consensus, that was when the night went from Good to Great!
“People have been trying to kill them for so long that they have developed natural immunities to most poisons. That spills over into their ability to process alcohol.” “That is racist propaganda,” Shinecatcher protested.
You are my master and you will do as I say!
“We all know that you like to poke beautiful dragonlings while they are sleeping. If you are enough of a monster to do that, why would you stop at cold-blooded murder?”
“So basically,” he said in a speculative tone, “we are going to be invading the stronghold of a parasitic magic user, via an unstable wormhole, that might open into hell itself at any moment, and every person we send through on this raid increases the chance that none of us will make it back. Is that about it?”
From the stubborn looks on some of their faces, Richter was pretty sure the village had only seen round one of the pixie-dwarf battle royale.
