“Anything is possible…” whispered Ruwyn the Elder.
He watched Tyrael frantically rub a clump of wet moss over a tankard. What the young elf expected to gather from this exercise was anybody’s guess. Something magical, no doubt.
Ruwyn should feel bad, hinting at non-existent mystical powers, leading the youth of his community astray. He didn’t though. Must be his age. Once he hit 250, he just stopped caring.
And now he had an endless parade of Tyraels in and out of his dwelling looking for something he couldn’t provide.
But he did have the shiniest drinkware in all the land.
The Weekday One Hundred 