The air in the tavern was thick and stale, the sour tang of ale mingling with the aroma of roast meat, all accompanied by the off-key strumming of a bard's lute.
By a round table near the fireplace, three adventurers were chatting animatedly.
A burly human warrior slapped the table and laughed. "So, do you know why Dwarves always build their wine cellars sturdier than their bedrooms?"
The Half-Elf rogue across from him raised an eyebrow and lifted his cup. "Because when enemies break into their bedroom, they can run away."
The High Elf with a staff on his back smiled knowingly, then gently swirled his drink and asked a question he already knew the answer to. "What about the wine cellar?"
"Of course they have to defend it to the death!"
The three burst into laughter, ale splashing from their clinking cups.
No one knew how many times this joke had already come up.
Yet no matter how often they heard it, as long as drinks were brought to the table, it remained the finest topic of conversation.
Naturally, they also wanted to hear newer Dwarf stories.
It was said that Dwarves had a book specifically for recording Dwarf stories told by others.
Unfortunately, most people who had seen that book later lost their own knees.
"Why does everyone always enjoy talking about those friends who like living in holes so much?"
A voice cut in.
The three stopped laughing and looked in puzzlement at the black-haired young man who had somehow sidled up to their table.
His appearance was unusual. No one knew which continent this human had come running from.
Fortunately, he wore a fairly respectable linen doublet.
The black-haired young man offered a gentle, harmless-looking smile. "My apologies for disturbing your enjoyment."
"I am a bard.