Arm wrestling goblins, beer-swilling pixies, and philosophy debating trolls. It was the nightly ritual at this roadside tavern.
But from atop his wooden stool, young Borrand would ignore it all, instead strumming his lyre and regaling the spirited crowd with songs about magical creatures and enchanted lands.
Tonight, however, was not most nights.
A harsh insult followed by an avalanche of punches later, the entire place had erupted into a loud, vicious brawl.
When it was over the musician found himself with a smashed lyre and black eye.
Maybe it was time to get paid in coin instead of ale…
The Weekday One Hundred 