Half-eleven in the morning: second breakfast had finished, and it was nearly time for luncheon. Hildago Buttertart of the Bottomtown Buttertarts was nervously pinching the corner of his spectacles as he brooded over his leather-bound manuscript with a steel-tipped pen in hand, fingers stained by ink and tobacco. A terracotta coffee pot and mug of black coffee sat next to him at his table, while his long smoking pipe smouldered its last gasp struggling for breath. He was a young hobbit, unremarkable in every way, with a plain round face and bushy brown hair.
He was ambitious this morning. Today the literary genius would flow freely, and he would write his novel. Not any novel; his heroic epic, full of romance and adventure. It would cement his reputation with the other great hobbit authors--all he needed was a magic ring, a terrible dragon, an evil sorcerer, and a band of fearless heroes ready for an impossible task. Where could he find such an adventure for his story?
For the past three weeks, Hildago spent everyday from first breakfast through supper sitting at a little booth in the back of The Troll’s Bridge Tavern. He was certain adventure would find him. Familiar with every succulent dish they served, from the stuffed partridge pie to more exciting options like the unicorn veal cutlets or the minced pixie soft tacos served with fairy dust. Known as the finest gastrotavern this side of Middlemost Earth, our plucky young author expected to find the solution to his troubles here between meal courses.
Sadly, The Troll’s Bridge catered to an upscale crowd of petty bourgeois professionals, the nouveau riche, celebrity transcontinental steam-powered airship cruise captains, sickly old divorced and widowed noblewomen keen to polish off two bottles of Pinot Grigio in an afternoon, and food critics. Of the patrons, the food critics were the most feared and savage guests more fearsome than any troll or mad wizard.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
At a table to Hildago’s left sat three garullous, fat goblin lawyers arguing about tax codes, insurance and finance while complaining about their alimony settlements to their ex-wives. They were busy tucking away an appetizer of deep-fried fairy wings over pints of Misty Mountain Warrior Lager while they waited for their mermaid sushi rolls. An ogre wrapped in an exquisitely tailored silk waist coat with a green lily pattern, linen breeches, a smart white cravat, and bespoke leather shoes with silver buckles gobbled upon roasted urchin’s feet. He was a leading hedge fund investor who had been a client of each of the goblin lawyers at one point or another, dealing with the complexities of his fast holdings and assets. The ogre was particularly pleased with his urchin’s feat: a speciality, imported that morning, by a dashingly handsome pirate with a prosthetic hook for a hand after he had lost his in an unfortunate fishing accident with a crocodile. (He did not like to talk about it). Free Range Lost Boy roasted au gratin avec jus de jeunesse was advertised on the chalk sandwich board outside the restaurant, and it was a particular favourite that day.
Hildago sighed. He was resigning himself to another dull day without inspiration, not a single article or participle written on the page, only another thick smudge of ink, while he mused at his choice between mutton stew, or those delectable mermaid sushi rolls which had this moment been served to the goblin lawyers. They looked positively ravishing. Raising his little, plump hand to try and get the waiter’s attention, an aloof dark elf with a surly sneer who obviously despised his job, he was interrupted by the sound of the great oak tavern door swinging violently open. Bedazzled, he looked at awe upon the team of adventurers who strutted inside the restaurant, resplendent in their majestic and heroic aura.
His life would never be the same.