The "Troll's Head" was a legendary pub, a smoky and welcoming dive famous for two things: its diverse clientele, which ranged from goblin smugglers to knights on their lunch break, and its improbable cocktails, like the "Dragon's Breath," which required you to sign a waiver.
Paul, an elf with the posture of someone who just lost a bet on a snail race and a perpetually confused air, was sitting at the bar. His usually impeccable blond hair looked like it had gotten into a fight with a pillow and lost. He wore the intense, melancholic expression of a man about to write a terrible poem or, worse, sing it.
"Life," he sighed, staring into his tankard with the same intensity a wizard stares into a crystal ball, "is like watered-down mead. Colorless, flavorless, and full of dead bees that represent the broken dreams of our youth."
Jason, the orc bartender—a giant with two tusks he used as bottle openers and the delicacy of a troll in a crystal shop—stopped wiping a mug with a rag that had seen better days. And probably a few battles. "Fantastic, Pointy Ears, another one of your depressing metaphors. At least the bees have stopped buzzing, unlike you. You want another mead or a handkerchief to cry into?"
A thunderous laugh, like the sound of rolling rocks, erupted next to Paul. It was Aaron, a dwarf whose beard—braided with gold thread and beads—was visibly better groomed than Paul's hair and contained enough ego to fill a mine. "You talk like a bard who's had his lute stolen, my friend!" he exclaimed, slapping Paul on the back so hard he nearly fell off his stool. "You need a jolt! You need a quest! You need... a woman!"
"You don't get it, Aaron," Paul whined. "Love is a battlefield."
"Of course it is! And I am a decorated general!" Aaron retorted, puffing out his chest. "Reminds me of that time in Ironforge, with the two cleric sisters. They were convinced a dwarf couldn't handle two prayers at once. Well, I proved to them that my devotion is... legen... wait for it... dary! LEGENDARY!"
Paul rolled his eyes. "You're so full of yourself, one almost doesn't notice that you have to get a running start to look me in the eye."
Aaron was unfazed. In fact, he beamed with pride. "My friend, let me tell you a secret. First: good things come in small packages, and I'm a '72 vintage. Second: from down here, I have a privileged perspective. Third: I don't risk a stiff neck talking to gnomes. It's a win-win situation."
"Yeah," Jason muttered from the bar, "especially for the gnomes, who can run away without you noticing."
Just then, the creak of the front door silenced their chatter. For Paul, time seemed to slow down like molasses in a glacial winter.
She walked in.
She wasn't just beautiful; she was otherworldly. A tall, slender vampire with long, raven-black hair that contrasted with her pale skin and an enigmatic smile that could make a saint confess. She wore a black leather jacket over a crimson dress and moved with a grace that made everyone else in the room look like drunk golems. It was Liv.
Paul stared, his jaw so wide open a bat could have nested in it. His heart began to pound like an orc's war drum.
"She's... she's the most incredible woman I have ever seen!" he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. "That is the mother of my future half-elf children! Feel my heart, Aaron, can you feel it?"
Aaron jabbed him sharply in the ribs. "Cool your jets, Romeo. Don't start planning the color of the curtains just yet. She's a high-level target. She requires strategy, charm, and a professional." He snapped his fingers. "Challenge accepted!"
"What? No!" Paul stammered, panicking. "I have to meet her! I have to marry her! I have to... what do I do? Do I go over there? Do I buy her a drink? Do I ask her opinion on ancient prophecies? Or is that too much for a first date?"
Aaron looked at him with a mixture of pity and determination. "Dude. You are a boring, romantic elf who talks about dead bees. She is a creature of the night with a lethal smile. If you go over there, you'll end up talking about the classification of trees. Let me handle it. I have a foolproof plan. It's called: Haaaaave you met Paul?"
Paul looked at him, indecision gripping every single one of his cells. "Okay, let's analyze the situation," he began to mumble to himself. "Option A: I go over there. She looks at me with those eyes that could drain an ocean, I stutter something about taxidermy, she calls the city watch. Total humiliation. Option B: I let you go. You win her over with a blatantly false story about your diamond mine, and I spend the rest of my life watching her laugh at your terrible jokes while I die inside. What's the lesser of two evils?"
He turned to his friend, his eyes wide with terror and hope. "What do I do? Do I risk rejection, or do I let my friend try for me?"