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It was becoming a common sight, these past few days. Ayreg, alive and functional, sitting at the same table in the common room of the Red Dragon, and usually rather early in the morning. He had a mug of ale -- vile stuff, really, and he wasn't entirely sure why he kept drinking it -- in his hand, a pipe full of burning tabac between his lips, an inkwell sitting upon the table, and a sheet of parchment just beside it. Part of his duties with the forge as their resident silversmith involved writing out work orders for the smithy to file away, as he has a habit of doing.
Really, the man had the most infuriating habits at times. For instance, whenever he's on the verge of being upset, he'll always blow from his internal bag of hot air, and rustle his thick, bushy mustache. By then, we now have a short, rather squat fellow pretending (or not) to be a windbag, blowing the remnants of whatever he ate last, and sometimes even the meal before that, out of his beard and all into your face.
Since Ayreg had a rather stiff neck that he wouldn't bend to anyone, including his employer, this happened to him at least twice a day when he went to the forge to work. By the end of the day, the death knight has brushed so many flakes of fish or mutton from his face and chest, that he has almost no appetite for himself when he gets back to the Red Dragon.
But I digress. Atop this morning's work order, Ayreg penned a rather personal letter to his employer at the blacksmith.
When I get back to the forge, I'm going to knock a few of your teeth out. I'm still not sure how you convinced me to join this little record-keeping hobby of yours, though I'm thinking the poisonous ale at the Red Dragon had something to do with it. I tried to make the work orders there at the forge, but I discovered it wasn't going to be a fun event. The forge's hammers were constantly clanking and banging, those blasted gnomes you hired were making silly pirate noises again, and it was cold. It nearly drove me crazy. The gnomes even managed to misplace the horrible rum that kept us warm during this miserable winter. And before you ask, I had nothing to do with that misplacement. Without further ado, here's the work orders you so desperatly wanted to know about from the silver forge. I truly hope it was a life-or-death situation involved in this...
Was Ayreg worried in the least about talking to his employer in such a way? No, of course not! After all, what's the worst that would happen? He'd get more bits and pieces of abandoned mutton blown at him from the man's beard, that's what.
Besides, it's not like he'd really knock the man's teeth out. Right?
Right?
It was becoming a common sight, these past few days. Ayreg, alive and functional, sitting at the same table in the common room of the Red Dragon, and usually rather early in the morning. He had a mug of ale -- vile stuff, really, and he wasn't entirely sure why he kept drinking it -- in his hand, a pipe full of burning tabac between his lips, an inkwell sitting upon the table, and a sheet of parchment just beside it. Part of his duties with the forge as their resident silversmith involved writing out work orders for the smithy to file away, as he has a habit of doing.
Really, the man had the most infuriating habits at times. For instance, whenever he's on the verge of being upset, he'll always blow from his internal bag of hot air, and rustle his thick, bushy mustache. By then, we now have a short, rather squat fellow pretending (or not) to be a windbag, blowing the remnants of whatever he ate last, and sometimes even the meal before that, out of his beard and all into your face.
Since Ayreg had a rather stiff neck that he wouldn't bend to anyone, including his employer, this happened to him at least twice a day when he went to the forge to work. By the end of the day, the death knight has brushed so many flakes of fish or mutton from his face and chest, that he has almost no appetite for himself when he gets back to the Red Dragon.
But I digress. Atop this morning's work order, Ayreg penned a rather personal letter to his employer at the blacksmith.
When I get back to the forge, I'm going to knock a few of your teeth out. I'm still not sure how you convinced me to join this little record-keeping hobby of yours, though I'm thinking the poisonous ale at the Red Dragon had something to do with it. I tried to make the work orders there at the forge, but I discovered it wasn't going to be a fun event. The forge's hammers were constantly clanking and banging, those blasted gnomes you hired were making silly pirate noises again, and it was cold. It nearly drove me crazy. The gnomes even managed to misplace the horrible rum that kept us warm during this miserable winter. And before you ask, I had nothing to do with that misplacement. Without further ado, here's the work orders you so desperatly wanted to know about from the silver forge. I truly hope it was a life-or-death situation involved in this...
Was Ayreg worried in the least about talking to his employer in such a way? No, of course not! After all, what's the worst that would happen? He'd get more bits and pieces of abandoned mutton blown at him from the man's beard, that's what.
Besides, it's not like he'd really knock the man's teeth out. Right?
Right?