A dragon, a dwarf and an elf walk into a bar...
But only because that bar is on their way to tracking down the lost heir in a last-ditch quest to save the kingdom from a very long list of very bad things. And also, quite possibly, because the more o...
As they made their way through the bustling lobby of The Forge, Slash realised—not for the first time since their quest had begun—he really should get out more. What with magic shops popping up in the suburbs, political protests in the street, authoritarian fairies running around policing laws that hadn't even been laid down yet and...and...daily disposable current affairs publications apparently making enough money to afford grandiose dockside three-storey buildings as their headquarters, the city—and no doubt the whole kingdom—was changing faster and more dramatically than he could have imagined, sequestered away as he was in his tidy and ordered militaristic world. Without the firm hand of a Manticore on the tiller, Irmway was drifting into uncharted waters. Dangerous waters, no doubt. It seemed the sooner they put Vazor's wayward arse firmly back on the throne, the better.
At their approach, the immaculate elf behind the ornate wooden reception desk looked up from his paperwork. "Story or complaint?"
The three questers stared at him. "Huh?" said Hobe.
"Story or complaint?" repeated the elf, raising his voice, presumably on the assumption volume trumped whichever applied out of stupidity, deafness and/or lack of Irmish. "To-which-does-your-enquiry-apply?"
"Neither," replied Hobe. "We're here to see Gella."
"You're referring to Ms Gwain?" The elf's expression suggested a strong inclination towards the stupidity option. "That's quite impossible. I'm afraid the chief-editor is only available by appointment."
Biceps bulging, Hobe placed two hammer-like fists down on the desk and leaned forward to give the receptionist the full benefit of his friendly grin.
"So, make us an appointment, then. We're free, say...oh, right about now."
The elf sniffed. "Ms Gwain's schedule is full. If you insist on seeing somebody, please take a seat in the further waiting area—the one way, way over there, behind the shrubbery—and I'll see if I can arrange for a junior-cadet reporter to get to you sometime before today's deadline. Otherwise, I'm afraid you'll have to come back another day. Or even next wee-aaaahhhheerrggghooohh! Sweet mother of—!"
"Hobie, Hobie, Hobie. What are we going to do with you?" Searching for the source of the amused voice, the party looked up to see a smartly dressed dwarf woman leaning on the railing of a second story landing, directly above the reception desk. " It seems you can take the dwarf out of Grulch Valley, but you can't take Grulch Valley out of the dwarf. Now, why don't you put down my receptionist—after turning him back the right way around, please—and then come up here so we can say hello properly?
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"Boodoop, boodoop."
"Er, yes. Hello. This is Lubkin. To whom am I speaking?"
Lord Hirschnopple rolled his eyes and, with a significant effort, resisted the urge to rap himself on the forehead with the speaking tube's brass endpiece. Prior experience (and current bruising) had revealed the folly of this move, regardless of the provocation.
