Ragnarr: Whenever

These monks brew a decent beer. It makes me go all maudlin. A terrible display for a servant of Pelor, so I'll just write it down and spare my companions the horror of a weepy dwarf.

There more I travel with this group of bastards, the more I think there might be something to the idea that we're fighting against the end of the world, here. Whatever the sea slugs are up to, it seems it might be serious. (I don't know that they're slugs, but I like to think of them as slugs. Something that might be disgusting, could be a problem, but in the end maybe we'll find they can be killed by leaving out a pint of beer. It's better than thinking about them as some kind of horrible thing man was not meant to know that eats crunchy dwarves.)

If the world is ending, I'll be a bit sad that I never had the chance to have a proper son. The closest I ever got was the lad my ex-wife tried to tell me was my son. The lad that inherited all my strong, dwarvish features; the long, blond hair, no beard, the tall and skinny body, and the pointy bloody ears. And no, she hadn't noticed that that bloody Lothlander cleric has been smirking at me every time we walk by him.

You know what I'd like to do? I'd like to see that bloody whore again. Just once. I'd like to look her in the eye, and tell her that forgive her all that shit, that I wish her nothing but the best, and hope her son grows up to be everything she'd like.

That would piss her off like nothing else. And then, boom, world ends. The sea slugs can lay babies in her stomach or something.

Or she might already be working for the sea slugs. That could be nice, too. I mean, it would be unfortunate to have to execute her, but damn, what else is there to do?

I just hope she finally came clean with that poor lad, or else he's growing up the most confused half-dwarf the world'll ever see.