*
Hear my jest. An elf, a dwarf, and a nephilim walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What
is this? Some kinda joke?”
A few notes. Primarily: this is no joke but the mere quotidian, the daily bread if you will,
at Dill’s, the old -world nook of a tavern of which I am the happy proprietor. Mystical folk of
every stripe congregate under my roof. Secondarily: “Nephilim” is a plural noun; the singular
form is “a Nephil,” the favored offspring of angels and men. And te rtiarily: I rarely walk into
this bar. I live here.
Now, all that being said, an elf and a dwarf did walk into my bar on the evening under
discussion. In point of fact, two elves and two dwarves walked in — or so I thought at the time.
The first was a lovely blonde with grey eyes, her ears hidden by one of the purple shawls that
were fashionable amongst Canadian elves that century. I didn’t recognize her, which was
unusual. I’ve been here a very long time, you see. She ordered an exceptional silver wine and
went to sit in a shadowed corner.
Not long after that, two old customers entered together. One looked characteristically
cantankerous —“Groth son of Grath!”— and the other characteristically jolly —“And Vissarion
Tulurieth, son of Quistilith Zelenorm! Welcome back to Dill’s.”
(You wonder, perhaps, why Vissarion’s last name was different from his father’s? In
elvish nomenclature, the second name is an epithet. “Tulurieth” means “Wingfoot”; and although
I had not seen this fellow in action before, I could imagine how quick he must be to earn such a
title from his own people. The slowest elf is still faster than a man.)
“Ho, Dill.”
68
Made with FlippingBook Digital Publishing Software