Tavern
You come across a strange, mauve tavern. Whoever chose the color for this place was nuts.
Outside the Tavern
A staircase leads back to an abandoned game development library.
An outhouse looks like a place you'd rather not visit.
Bushes around the back seem like they might be hiding somebody's dirty secrets.
An old man stands with a trenchcoat and fedora.
Inside the Tavern
You sit yourself down at a table, and order a beer. While you sip, you overhear some interesting conversation...
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Aye, have ye heard? There be an idea for a sequel, of sorts, to thar Epic Poem, Ventarre the Vod. Thar poem thar be too long! Too ambitious! What thar insane poet, Plasy, be thinking?
I shad smas'r 'is face, 'afore he makes his life a mis'ry!
Pah! Ol' Plasy be full of ideas. Kep yerselfs ta drinkin', and leave the speculatin' to us gnomes. What I's heard, is he's got an idear for a poem 'bout a mansion fill't wif' strange Japanese dresser-uppers. But what kinda poem'd that make, ar?
Nar, nar, ye'er both wrongs as a two-uddered cow.
Plasy's next poem's not to be a poem at all, but a drawin' of a giant, futuristic city! 'parrently, his idea's to make the paintin' infinite, tho' I don't see how even such a rich feller as Plasy kin' afford so much canvas!
Ahh, yeep yeep yeep!
Ahh, yeep yeep yeep yerself, elf. Plasy's insane, that's all I knows fer sure.
I kin' drinks ta that!
Ahh, yeep yeep glarrr!
*** SHRUG ***
I'd-a likes ta see a game 'bout a flyin, futuristic city fil't ta tha brim' with mansions, them's as fil't ta tha brim it's-selves with 'dem strange-o Japanese dresser-uppers. But 'cher right about him bein's crazy, crazy as old Marple, yon.
Harrr! Harrr! Harrr!
Nae be throwin' yer dirtay dishe's a-me, babes. I'se a hundret-n-five, and when's I'se-a yang'n as ye's is, I'se-a beat yer pulp to yer pulp.
*** THUNK! CRASH ***
Bastards! Foul begotten sons of bastards of bastards of bastards! To hell wi' ye alls!
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