“Many greetings, Dill old friend, purveyor of the choicest ales and tender of the warmest
hearth this side of the Fourteenth Gate! What cheer on this autumn eventide?”
“Another day, another night, my friend. Things change, and nothing changes. How is
your lovely mother?”
“Well indeed, I thank you, and will surely tell her you inquired! Business is brisk, I trust?”
“Quite so, quite so. Better than ever since the mortals invented this live-action role-
playing. Mind you, I have to keep an eye out for underage human drinkers now.”
He frowned. “There are vampires about the place?”
“No, friend, I mean drinkers who are human, and who are under the legal age for —”
“Dill,” said Groth. “I seek my old compatriot, Gar son of Thrug, and heard tell that he
was hither bound. Have you seen him, perchance?”
“Thrugson? Nay, not these nine winters past.”
“What of the Lady Elladonna Mirielavay?” asked Vissa rion.
I frowned. “Don’t know the name. New to town, is she?”
“After a fashion.”
I never forget a name, or a face. At the moment there were perhaps two dozen stories
scattered about the common room, both mystics and mortals, drinking earthly and otherworldly
drinks. A small fire crackled in the corner and the lights were dim, but the chatter and the fiddles
were lively. Every denizen of the higher realms who came to the eastern coast knew to seek out
Dill’s for company and cheer. Even as we spoke, the door s wung open once again, and in
clomped a scowling greybeard dwarf.
Groth turned, and his face turned grimmer than before. “Gar.”
The newcomer froze, and then produced two tomahawks. “Groth.”
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