They say elves can hold their liquor. They say elves are always perfect and poised and oh so lovely.
They are, of course, quite wrong.
Ranger Dir Dinirian sat in a shadowed corner in the tavern slowly sipping his noon-day tea.
He was contemplating the universe and where he belonged within it.
His thoughts traveled down perilous roads before reaching the obvious answer: He was meant to conquer.
He would have to start small.
Some where poorly guarded.
He smiled. “The Western Fields. Yes. They are perfect. Perfect for the picking.”
An elf with long blond hair dropped into the seat right next to him. He bleared a seasick, watery, completely sloshed smile at the ranger.
“What do you want, elf?”
“Name’s Quickwit. Whazzzz yours?”
“Ranger Dir Dirinian.”
Quicwit slapped his hands on the table. “Lemme talk to you about elfwomen.”
The ranger startled. “Pardon?”
“Elfwomen. Yaaa know…” His hands twirled in limp circles. “Women elves with their long hair and dain’y feet and and—” His head wobbled like he was going to tip over, but he caught himself.
He clapped his hands on the ranger’s shoulders. “Ellllffff women are…*hic* as stubborn like a cockroach in a banana split. Elf women are azzz uhhh azz tedious azzzzzz a headache in J’ly. They’re azzz psychic as a warrior eating fries and chips and cursing their inevitable dooooommm. They’re…they’re…they…”
He slumped down and laid his head on the table, bumping the ranger’s tea cup. “I don’ know why they don’ like me. Every one I date goes all ‘Letttt’zzz be friends’ and I don’ wannnna be friends.”
“Is there a good reason why you’re telling me all this?”
Quickwit slogged his head upwards. “You zzzzeeem like a good lizzzzner. Jus’ what I need. A good lizzzzzzzner.” He laid his head back down and fell asleep.
The ranger looked at the sleeping elf and smiled.
He resumed thinking about his plot to take over the Western Fields. “I will conquer them. I have no doubt about it.”