Silas's Subtle Skill

The ale, bless its frothy, amber heart, was doing its usual excellent work of softening the edges of Barnaby’s regrets. He swirled the remnants in his tankard, catching the dim tavern light. “Remember that time, Silas,” he began, his voice a gravelly rumble that had surprised more than a few tavern patrons over the decades, “when we faced down that entire horde of… of… well, they were very pointy. And numerous.”

Silas grunted, his own tankard clanking onto the scarred oak table. “Pointy and numerous, Barnaby, or were they just a particularly aggressive flock of sheep that got into the fermented berries again?”

Barnaby waved a dismissive hand, nearly knocking over a salt shaker. “Details, details. The point is, we stood our ground. Like two immovable oaks. Or perhaps two slightly wobbly, but determined, barrels.” He took a long, satisfied draught. “Those were the days. Now look at us. My knees creak louder than a goblin’s rusty armor, and your hair… well, it’s seen better days. And fewer nights spent contemplating the ceiling.”