I hate this place. I had thought it could be the last homely house, an island of all that had been fine in the life of the feykin, held fast as the rising tide of Men and worse crashed over it in squalid waves. But alas no, there are too few now of elfkind in this land: too many forever lost to us in battle against Dark Lords, and too many long gone over the Sundering Seas in Ships of No Return. And worse, the world is changed so the Western Ocean leads now only to a land yet more barbaric than this one, so even that escape is denied me.
I hate everything about the restaurant. I hate the sign that says "Meals contain no garlic or silver except where noted.", because I remember when we used to hunt monsters, not pursue the pale pound and the gruesome groat by treating blood sucking and turning into a wolf as merely the latest food allergies.
I hate the Faceless Fiend in a hood who always sits at table twelve and orders fell meat which even our Hell's kitchen won't serve. If I can't kill the beast, I'd like to at least send it down the street to McZombie's take-away for a necrotic sausage. But alas no, I have to keep offering the Beast a healthy salad.
I hate the noisy squires who order waybread and then complain about the small portions and want ketchup on it. I hate it every night when the taverns close and all our cutlery glows blue, so we have to run and bar the doors against packs of orcs wanting unspeakable liquors.
But mostly I hate that awful evening when She came into the restaurant and set me on the path to this cell.
The Hooded Thing was at table twelve as usual, this time demanding Wasted Flesh with a Foul Broth Sauce. I don't even know what that meat dish is, and don't ask what Foul Broth consists of unless you want to be sick (which incidentally would partly answer your question).
There was a party of trolls unable to manage speech, who were incomprehensibly miming what they wanted but were going to get billy goat as always.
In the corner something demonic was lashing its tail and looking unlikely to leave a tip.
And then She walked in, a Lady fair beyond compare such as blessed the ancient days of beauty and nobility. Until she took her hat off I even thought she could be an elf, but no, she was but a Mortal. Yet surely, I guessed at first, she must be of a noble line often mixed with Elvish blood? No, now I think not.
"My lady." I greeted her with a low bow, but straightened to find her scowling.
"I prefer Ms."
"Er, of course." I offered her the menu, but she continued looking at me, and then said:
"Do you always dress like that?"
"Yes, My Ms., mine are the colours of the trees that marched this land in verdant battalions before there rose the bane of farming and the curse of cities."
She nodded, "Browny green, so Second Age, but retro looks OK on you, with the ears." She paused, before adding with an already irritating smile "Which were better without the red."
"Perhaps, My Ms, there is something I could do for you?" I tried to salvage the situation with politeness.
"Yes there is. I'm looking for an Elf to do something very special."
At last, hope sprang like glorious spring-time in my heart, to find a heroic and meaningful quest after so very long adrift in the bleak mundane!
"Anything, My Ms, anything. I excel with the bow, I can track light-footed prey through the most barren wilderness, and my courage has been tested against the greatest and darkest of blood-freezing foes. I am ready and eager to die today at your command." I knelt and looked up at her ready for whatever she wished. I thought.
"Actually, I'm looking for a fairy model for my next fashion shoot. Would you like to be a cover boy?"
I could not speak. I glared at her with what I meant to be some dread spell of smiting, but remembered sadly that I am not a wizard.
When I said nothing she continued with a wink "And perhaps afterwards, if you're lucky, you could explore where the dwarves don't delve?" I clambered to my feet and staggered away as if ogre-struck.
The chef had no "wasted flesh" in stock of course, but had prepared some Foul Broth Sauce by wearing full armour and keeping his head under water at all times. I was taking this smoking preparation to the Fiend on table twelve and being careful not to look at That Woman as I passed her table.
Then she coughed theatrically and caught my eye, with a look full of thoughts which no maid should know. I was transfixed, walked into a chair, stumbled, fell, dropped the Foul Broth Sauce onto her, heard the hiss as it went through her clothes.
The Hooded Thing moved incredibly quickly for a creature which is, strictly speaking, not even alive. As it flew past me I heard the whispered words full of greed and longing "wasted flesh", and then the crunching squelches as its wide cloak spread and covered the instantly marinaded "meat".
Of course it was too late to save her, had anyone tried. The only remaining question is: why am I being blamed for any of this?