1372: The Year of Wild Magic: Day 213
Myarra takes a large gulp of ale, wipes her lips with the back of her sleeve, and plunks her now (nearly) full mug down in front of her.
"I'll go firsht, oh Mashter of the Library Artchs. What Comanchorian poet penned the 1076 classic: Ride of Lord Hallshic?" She peers suspiciously at Aliana for a second. "Itch you, right? Didst you always have a parrot?" She shakes her head and peers again. "I'll givsht you a minute to shink about it before you trink. And I want a popper trink. None of that gensheel shipping nonschense."
She turns to Byron and blinks several times. "I've only had two," she tells him, counting on her fingers and holding up seven. "Thist isht schome good schtuff they gotch here. Better than that pischt in Treeel.
I know because he said: Hewwo beautful. Thatch their give away, even when they're a waterbarrow. I met a copper sonbisht in Daggerdale. That washt his come on line. Course he was chapchifted to look like an elfses, and he was really a wady dwagon, but I don't shuppose that matters when you're shcally. Great Kissher. Oh, schweet Hanawi's twits, great kissher. When an elfs I mean. I don't schwing to the shcally. Not without a few more of trees, em I wight?" she laughs, taking another swing of her ale, and slaps Byron on the shoulder. Then shakes her hand.
"Oww! Bit of advish: Never get pashionate with a chapchifter that can't conshuntrate. She broke cha bed, the schwindo on her way out, and damn near me leg. Schtill, great kissher. Damn furshtrating night. Worsht, she left me withst the bill. Can't ever gost backs there again."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:32, Sun 26 Apr 2020.