"Now you will die!" cried the greasy-haired ruffian. "Wielding one of the Hundred, I can conquer anyone!"

"Ha!" Doric flicked her wrist, disarming the bandit. "Sabembermoff had a hundred swords, each more amazing than the last, but it looks as though you only wield Arthak's."

--Taken from Book 6, Nightstand's Peril

Felthar and Cubbard were out there somewhere; and they were in danger. Even with the warm fire of the hearth at his back and the cold, smooth ale sweating in his hand, Dogus knew that Gorg Stinkrot was out there as well.

"Stinkrot," Dogus cursed to himself under his breath, "Stinkrot and that damnable nightstand."

One of the bar maids seemed to have overheard this muttering and stared at him with big, concerned pupils.

"Worry not, child," Dogus placated her, "These are but the troubles of an old Elemenstor... long out of the loop."

She placed her hand on his shoulder and then smacked another froth-spewing mug onto the table next to him, leaving him to his thoughts. His thoughts remained out the window, which framed a perfect Middleclang night of trixillating stars over high-peaked mountain ranges.

Somewhere out there, Dogus thought, Gorg was causing trouble in Ezermethalon. "He's causing trouble and I'm not there to assist old Felthar," Dogus hissed.

Lifting his purple-furred head up, Turnum recovered from his stupor long enough to gaze at his bearded master.

"Back to your sweet-addled, temporary coma," Dogus lulled, "Back to the haze we have both garnered for ourselves here in this drunken land."

It had been many years since the Wasted Elemenstor had lived a true tale of heroics, looting and adventure, many a yearicle since he had engaged himself in some journey of worth and excellence. Now, he sat in the Pig's Annoyance, ogling the lady-folk and entertaining the scarred patrons near the kegs with his tales of High Elemenstoring and dark deeds unwrought.

Looking at the snowy caps of the mountains, Dogus wondered if he shouldn't leave it all, go back to a life as a great Fire Elemenstor, forge new tales for himself, and steal those of others. He could still return, he mused, return and live off the new tales here in this diminutive, hidden paradise of ale and skirt. Lately, Dogus had found he was exhausting his well of stories to impress and beguile the folk of Middleclang.

He had been improvising lately, and improvising badly. Many a drunken night he had crafted a poorly-conceived tale and he was beginning to suspect the townsfolk were now only humoring him and no longer believed his recountings.

The Pig's Annoyance was starting to let out. Few were left to stagger on home, and fewer still remained to buy Dogus drinks in exchange for Dogus' many epic recallings. Tonight the chubby waitress, her considerable girth and bosom barely held tight underneath her white bar-maiden's dress, was the only one left to listen. Would he enthrall her with tales of battle and mercy? Would he remain where he was, content to tickle her ear with an Elemenstoring saga or two? Or would he get up from this wooden stool, lay down his basket of deep-fried Runtberries and rejoin the great fight for the world of Battal?

---

Dogus Brankorking, former Fire Elemenstor of Battal, awoke on a slobbered pillow, the smell of leaf smoke and wet ape-hair in his nostrils. He turned to peer over his shoulder. Plump and cute, flushed cheeks smiled back at him contentedly. Her bar-maiden's red bow un-tied and lying limp on her beard-scratched shoulder. In the background of her chubby form was the ape, snoring smugly in what Dogus assumed were probably arrogant, smug dreams.

"Tell me more of Elemenstoring, Dogus," cooed the soggy bar-maid, "Tell me more of the furniture and the glory."

Dogus turned over briefly to look out the window of his room. The snow-splattered mountain range was lit by an enduring sun now. Somewhere beyond them was his old friend, in trouble, somewhere out there new stories were still being lived...and TOLD.

--Taken from Book 6, Nightstand's Peril

"I'm a dangerous man, Serafina." uttered Felthar darkly and mysterious (and handsomely). He could see that she was smitten by his darkly mysterious handsomeness - all of the buxom bear dancers in this seedy joint were. She fluttered her copious eyelashes and reclined into his dark arms. Darkly, he muttered, "This is radical, girl."

--Taken from Book 6, Nightstand's Peril