In a tree in a grove

On a small dusty path in between the Human kingdom of Westerland and the Kobold caves of Scragglydag, is a mushroom grove that, if rumours are to be believed, you must be sufficiently intoxicated to enter. Deeper still, within that magical mystery tour of a mushroom grove, there lies a very out-of-place tree, and within that tree lies a café.

You may be incredibly disappointed to learn that, despite the magical beginning, the end of my introduction led to a simple food diner and for that, I am sorry. At the end of the day, when you really think about it, isn’t there something magical in the now? Yes, I know it sounds cheesy, but suspend your disbelief, if you will.

Oh, don’t be like that! Look, to make it up to you, why don’t I let you peek inside the Almond Blossom café?

Please, do come in.

***

“AND THAT’S WHY” the hulking dwarf patron yelled as beer and spit ejected across the table. “You humans with your fancy feather pens take too long to write things down! Look!” He pulls out a smaller, more refined version of his gold war hammer currently nestled by the fireplace and ran a finger across it. The hammer lit up the colour of molten sulphur and he brought it down with a loud THUNK sound. Leaping from the hammer and translated from runes to the common lounge were two words.

HOW’S THAT?

The human sat across from him looked visibly annoyed. A man very wiry in frame and stature. One would get the impression that someone perpetually irritated him. He was not a snob, by any means. His clothes were about as average as one who had stumbled across a tree in a mushroom grove might wear. Common grey wool. Very drab, very plain, you understand.

But his aura, my friend. His aura is that unique combination of arrogance, intellectual stubbornness and a desire to never admit you are incorrect that made him… well, quite the unpleasant person indeed.

“Actually,” he began before pausing and reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of bronze framed spectacles before continuing. Nobody told him, but they rested on his face lopsided, like a child who had just run into a door. The dwarf remained stony faced as he continued. “It’s more about the artistry of the thing. When writing with a quill, one truly understands the pain and anguish that comes with creating art.”

“Oh, aye?” said the dwarf.

“Yes aye!”

The dwarfs’ eyes went backs and forwards between the Human’s handcrafted writing and his magic one. He repeated this action multiple times, each time becoming slower and more deliberate with his movements because he knew that for every second he wasted on this pointless exercise, the angrier the human was going to become. After looking them over, he paused for a very long time before speaking again.

“So, tell me lad, with ye human intellect,” he stopped talking for a second, this time to put air quotes theatrically around the word intellect. The human by now was red faced and shaking in his chair. “You can tell these two pieces of parchment are identical, yes?”

“I can.”

"Why should you care how the words are created? Not like they serve a practical purpose."

“Don’t serve a practical-” The young man bolted upright in his chair with such force the glasses that were now lopsided had mercifully corrected themselves. He began frantically jabbing his finger at the dwarf and was yelling with so much force in such a high-pitched manner that the other customers in the café had no choice but to turn around. “It's the artistry of the thing! When you write by hand, it is as if you're transmuting your very soul. And it is only when you speak with your soul that words have true meaning and stories can be beautiful! What is the point of doing something quickly when there is no effort in it? No heart?”

“Are you telling me my words aren’t beautiful?”

“Well, if I'm being quite honest Sir, I would say they were quite brutish. Yes, brutish and not very elegant at all.”

Now, dear reader, I'm quite sure that, unlike the subject of our tale here, you very well know how to conduct yourself. And even if you are unfamiliar with the ways and customs of dwarves, I'm sure that you can surmise that angering one is not a good idea. It must be even more surprising to you then that somebody who is an inhabitant of our little world seems to ignore this willingly, but to put it in simple terms.

He messed up quite badly.

Making a deliberate show of slowly leaving his chair and walking to his hammer, the supposedly ‘brutish’ person knew that scaring the pants off this thin, frail man would probably not be a good look, but he would not be insulted by an individual who had about as much luck talking to people as a Pixie would do bench-pressing a cookie jar.

“Oh well, that's a shame, because you see this hammer here? It’s brutish too! Loves cracking skulls, absolutely loves it. Since you're so intelligent, though, I'm going to give you an opportunity to tell me why I shouldn't splatter your brains over these bloody walls.”

“Uh, well, you see. What I meant was… elegance is subjective, yes! You know, what I find beautiful and what you find beautiful may be different because of cultural or anthropological differences. Differences which, if I may suggest, should be resolved by talking rather than removing my hippocampus from my skull?”

To the other patrons in the cafe, it seemed for all intents and purposes that one of these people were about to die. You understand that given the times in which we live, such things are not uncommon. I am sure that if the pompous gentlemen were to perish, the rest of the customers inside the almond tree café would have gone about their business just as regularly as if they had a relative fall down a well, or they contracted smallpox.

A loud clanging noise thankfully interrupted the painful silence. Everyone shifted their attention away from the unpleasant scene at the table. Their gaze was instead towards a rather stout Halfling woman banging her pots and pans together with enough ferocity to scare away a griffon.

“OI! You would think that considering this cafe doesn't serve booze, you would be a little more well behaved!” Taking steps towards the pair, one would imagine a loud thump with each step. As she passed each table, the customers sitting there instinctively recoiled in fright. This was odd, I would imagine some of them have faced one of the many perils that blacken this land. Zombies, goblins, dragons perhaps?

None of them compared to a freckled barmaid wielding a heavy soup spoon and a cooking pot.

“If I must tell you once, I have to tell you a thousand times! She addressed everyone, but the two at the table felt the edge of her ire and the person whose wit he thought clever felt the deeper meaning. “If this place had beer, you’d be lethal! Colour me old-fashioned, but I’d much rather you kept your squabbles outside.”

“B-“

“Gregory. If you want to continue to spend time friendless and alone in my business day after day, then the least you could do is actually order something.”

While it was certainly true that young master Gregory spent a lot of time alone in the Almond Blossom, sometimes it's it does not do one good to say the quiet part out loud. Observing this utter emasculation of the young man, the dwarf could only say one more thing before leaving.

“Pathetic.”

***

“You didn’t have to embarrass me in front of everyone.”

“I bloody well did! How much longer are you going to keep tormenting my customers like that! You may well have your fancy letters and philosophies, but this is a café, did you forget? I know your head is always full of Gods knows what, but would it kill you to be nice?”

“I am nice.”

The halfling was incredulous. “You literally insulted somebody for doing something faster than you did. You're lucky that man didn't smash your skull. You can't be that oblivious that you can't see when somebody is that angry at you. Gods above, they could have killed you!”

Gregory winced. It was very easy for him to keep up his bravado when he was speaking to somebody he did not know. He could be whoever he wanted, say whatever he wanted.

Pretend whatever he wanted.

I’m sorry Gwen, it's just incredibly frustrating when people don't understand art! How would you feel if somebody insulted your cooking? Or Menu? Your preparation? It takes a lot of effort to remain polite when nobody comprehends you.”

Gwen hit the bottom of the table with her arm, and the subsequent ripple caused the papers to fall to the floor. Gregory tried to catch them, but he had to watch them fall helplessly to the ground. Gwen made a sharp tutting sound.

“What a bloody surprise. Half the papers have things scribbled out and the other half have nothing on them. If you're going to puff out your chest in front of my customers, at least do the thing that you claim to be doing: you make yourself look like an idiot! At least when I talk about my business, I'm actually doing something. How long do you plan on being a writer that doesn't write?”

“Not long,” Gregory said meekly. It’s just the ideas take time.”

“Oh, don’t give me that!” She paused and surveyed the situation. Gregory was hardly in a state to be scolded anymore, and it was getting late. She had been doing this job long enough to know that some things were better handled when everyone was ready.

“It's getting late, but are you sure you don't need anything? You've been doing this for a while and people are worried about you. Are you still having problems with-“

“I’m fine, thank you.” Gregory promptly got out of his seat and made way for the door. On the way out, he put down a copper coin for the tea that he had caused to spill earlier. “Thank you for the company, Gwen. I shall see you soon.”

“It's the first day of spring tomorrow! The perfect time for trying again!”

And so, with very little theatricality, a rare occurrence for Gregory, he left. This was not a merry time for the Almond Tree café. A place designed by its very nature and whimsicality to be a home where you would forget about your troubles.

But this night, both Gregory and Gwen only had their failures and a long walk home for company.