Paul was paralyzed, an elegant statue of elven panic. Aaron's question—risk rejection or let his friend break the ice—reverberated in his head like a goblin war drum. Across from him, Liv, the vampire, leaned against the bar with lethal grace, ordering a goblet of something deep red from Jason. The orc served her with a nod, a gesture of respect he saved for almost no one, least of all Paul and his metaphors about dead bees.
"So, Pointy-Ears? The clock is ticking," Aaron urged him, his enthusiasm inversely proportional to his height. "Look, an opportunity like this won't come again. It's an astral alignment. A cosmic convergence. A stroke of..."
"I get it!" Paul interrupted, his voice a choked whisper. "Okay. Okay. Let's analyze. Option A: I go. Catastrophe. Option B: you go. Double catastrophe with a side of jealousy." He took his head in his hands. "Isn't there an Option C? Like, fainting and hoping she revives me with a kiss?"
Aaron snorted. "Too much like a romance novel. Be a man! Or an elf, whatever. Listen to me, my plan is scientific. It's based on dwarven social psychology. I call it 'The Unexpected Pick-up Technique.' Here's how it works: I go over, grab her attention with my magnetic charm, and then, at the peak of the conversation, I introduce you. You'll be the mysterious and melancholic friend. Women go crazy for mysterious and melancholic friends."
"I'm not mysterious," Paul lamented. "I'm just sad and I like gardening."
"Details!" Aaron cut him short. "I'm doing it. Trust your general." Without waiting for a reply, he chugged his tankard of beer, smoothed his gold-braided beard, and marched toward the bar with the determination of a dwarf heading for a vein of gold.
Paul watched him go, feeling like a condemned man watching the executioner sharpen his axe. He huddled on his stool, trying to hide behind his empty tankard. He saw Aaron lean against the bar near Liv, flashing a smile that should have been charming but on him looked more like a threat.
"Good evening," Aaron began, his booming voice making the glasses vibrate. "I see you have excellent taste. 'Aged Dragon's Blood' is a connoisseur's choice. Reminds me of the time I convinced a dragon to spit directly into my tankard..."
Liv turned slowly toward him. Her enigmatic smile didn't waver, but her crimson eyes scanned him with the coldness of a glacial winter. "A dwarf who tells stories," she said, her voice velvety but with an undercurrent of steel. "How original."
Aaron wasn't fazed. "Ah, but mine are not mere stories! They are legends! And speaking of legends... Haaaave you met Paul?" he said, indicating his friend with a broad, theatrical gesture.
This was it. Paul felt dozens of eyes turn to him. He felt his heart race and his brain empty of all coherent thought. Liv set her gaze upon him. It was like being stared at by two crimson moons, beautiful and terrifying. Paul felt naked, exposed, a lamb to the slaughter. He stood up, swaying slightly. He had to say something. Something witty, charming.
"The bees..." he stammered.
Liv arched an eyebrow. "I'm sorry?"
"The bees," Paul repeated, his mind completely short-circuiting. "Sometimes... they die. In the cider. It's a metaphor."
Silence. A silence so profound you could hear the dust settling on the hunting trophies hanging on the walls. Aaron put a hand over his face. Jason the orc, for the first time that night, smiled. A terrifying smile, full of glee at another's misfortune.
Liv looked at him for another, very long second. Then a corner of her mouth lifted in a smile that was both amused and compassionate. "A profound metaphor," she said, with a sincerity that was clearly feigned. "Now, if you'll excuse me, my evening has just begun, and I'd rather not contemplate insect suicide." With an elegant nod to Jason, she took her goblet and headed for a secluded table in the darkest corner of the tavern, disappearing into the shadows.
Paul remained standing, motionless. The rejection hadn't been cruel. It hadn't been violent. It had been worse. It had been gentle, almost bored. She had dismissed him like an insignificant thought.
Aaron returned to his side, giving him a pat on the back that sounded less convinced this time. "Okay," the dwarf admitted. "Maybe dwarven social psychology doesn't apply to vampires. And your 'dead bees' tactic needs some work."
Paul sank back onto the stool, his face red with shame. "I just want to sink," he murmured. "Like a bee. Into my cider."
"Cheer up," Jason said from behind the bar, sliding him another tankard. "At least you didn't try to recite a poem."