April 4, 2020

Ragnar the Wretched

“Ashdautus Gruumsh vrasubatlat uk,” Ragnar muttered into his half-empty mug, for no reason other than that the words felt at home on top of the pleasant fire of the black grog burning its way down his throat.

If only those words still rang true.

For half a second, he nearly gave into the feral urge to slam the mug down and throw the entire damn table at the two halfling pixies who hadn’t stopped eying him since he’d walked into this flower-blooded tavern… what had it been, six drinks ago?

He hadn’t been paying particularly close attention.


short story

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