Around dinner time four groups converge in the Stonehill Inn. They drink, start to engage in conversation to learn why they are here, and to expound on their many exploits. Upright Citizens Brigade is loud even boisterous about their beheading of Klarg, wanting their exploit to be far and above those of mere common villagers that have gathered to eat near the edges of the various groups; the common rabble.
The groups, the heroes, so they say, sit in places of honor. The loudest, of course, are the motley crew of the UCB. Nearest the back are a demure group, sipping on wine with cloaks heavy on their head, despite the heat of the fireplace near them. Their wardrobe makes it hard to know whether they are human or orc. Another group, in the center of the fracas, the townsfoke know are n00bs. They seem to call themselves the Flaming Swords. And finally the last, a group of dwarves, dense with ale and thick with song. They grow weary of the tales of murderous intent from the UCB. So, suddenly break into song:
Far over the misty mountains cold
To inns deep, and highballs old
We must away drink until the break of day
In seek of the pale enchanted gold egg.
The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,
And their hammers fell like ringing bells
But instead we sleep,
In hollow halls beneath the sheets.
For ancient king and elvish lord,
There many a gleaming golden hoard
But we care care not what they shaped and wrought
Since it is hard to hide in gems on hilt of sword.
On silver goblets…
Before the group of jolly go deeper in lore, the door of the in suddenly opens. In comes Sister Garaele with a man, cloaked in similar garb as the wine drinker follows. The fading light of the setting sun making her sliver hair glow, incaptivating all. Dwarves suddenly quiet and the forks feasting on mutton suddenly quiet…
Note: So sorry, Tolkien for the song.