Hamish staggers forth from the tavern, the front of his kilt soaked in ale. "By me Grand Da's hairy bollocks, what in the world was that," he cries. "The place was shakin' hard enough to spill me beer. Methinks there be trouble afoot. I best be seekin' oot some of those magical lads. They may know what's going on," he mutters as he strides away.
The Tavern
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