“Aww, why the long face, brother?” the pale man teased. He slapped his gloves on the table with an audible smack before plopping down in front of his depressed friend. “You didn’t lose another one, did ya?”
The knight sat in silence, swirling the mead about in his pint with his boney finger.
“You did, didn’t you!” the man howled in laughter. “Lord, you really are terrible at this. What is that, the third this week?”
“Second,” the knight corrected through gritted teeth.
“Aye? How many this month, though? Let’s see. There was the maiden of Fornost. Marauders hung her, correct?”
The knight ignored the statement, continuing to swirl the dark liquid before him.
“Then the lady of Vinshere; she fell from the tower and broke her neck. There was Lady Marwere; she was eaten by wolves. Princess Penelope; you lost her in the woods of Dunmirk. Oh, and you can’t forget about the maiden of Vermouth. Weren’t you the one who did her in? Lobbed her head clean off. And Lady… Oh, what was her name? Maryweather!”
“Ah, yes. Marywater. Squashed by a giant, if I recall correctly. We are going to have to keep you away from these damsels, mate. At this point, you are doing more harm than good. Workplace accidents are one thing, but this is coming across as more of a liability.”
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