[h2]Mezzo, 3 weeks later[/h2]

"What is this guy's deal?" muttered the young nineteen year old as he watched the bard regaling the rest of the sturdy mostly wooden tavern with his tale of grandeur in a faraway land.  The bard had been at it for over half an hour now and Trebleans of the mining, farming and even housewife persuasion were beginning to get pissed off at the guy's obvious foreign accent.  One bold farmer, a rugged looking blonde man of swarthy, reddish complexion with an equally blonde scraggly beard covering most of his face, yelled out from deep in his cups.  "We're Trebleans not Treblans ye fuckin' cur!  Jus' where are ye from, ye tryhard miser? Ye best be watchin' yer tongue 'round here, thinkin' this faraway land o' yers is better than what we've got!"  Drink made him unsteady on his feet as he turned around to totter off and leave in obvious disgust.  A few tavern patrons followed suit, mostly women who somehow saw logic in his drunken rant.  

[@Letter Bee]