Thandriel sighed, a sound like wind through dead leaves. "Typical. My people were distilling starlight while your ancestors were still discovering the wheel. I’ll have a dew-drop nectar, chilled to the temperature of a winter’s morning in the Elder Woods."

The bartender stared. Malphas leaned over, his horns narrowly missing a low-hanging chandelier. "Give 'em the rotgut, barkeep. And for me? Whatever you use to strip the paint off those wagons outside. Make it a double." The Punchline

As they sat on stools that groaned under their collective cosmic weight, Elara looked at her companions. "We are a disgraced royal, an exiled immortal, and a literal manifestation of sin. Why are we here again?"

Malphas took a massive swig of the liquid fire and grinned, showing too many teeth. "Because, Princess... the Dark Lord might be coming for your kingdom, and the Void might be swallowing the Elven forests, but even the apocalypse needs a designated driver."

"We got ale and 'The Special,'" the bartender grunted, polishing a mug with a rag that was arguably filthier than the glass.