Following Bill's "brilliant" strategy—"find a girl who likes you"—Aaron had proclaimed himself the manager of Paul's love life. For a dwarf who boasted of his conquests with the clerics of Ironforge, it had become a matter of professional pride.
"Forget the vampire," Aaron declared a few days later, as the three friends sat in "The Busted Cauldron," a dive known for serving stew of questionable origin. Bill was eating his with gusto, not asking too many questions. Paul was merely poking at unidentified chunks of meat on his plate. "Liv is out of your league. It's like trying to climb Dragon's Peak in sandals. You need to start with something more... accessible. A hill. A gentle, welcoming hill."
"I don't want a hill," Paul grumbled. "And stop describing women as geographical features."
"It's a metaphor, Pointy-Ears. You of all people should appreciate them," Aaron retorted, before leaning in with a conspiratorial air. "I have the perfect candidate for you. Her name is Angela."
Paul looked up, intrigued despite himself. "Angela?"
"Yep. A friend of a cousin of a drinking buddy of mine. A girl full of life. Passionate. With a great... eye... for detail."
There was a pause. Bill stopped chewing. "Wait," he said slowly. "Angela... the cyclops?"
"The one and only!" Aaron confirmed with a dazzling smile. "A woman of character. And most importantly, she likes elves. Says she finds them exotic."
Paul nearly choked on his stew. "A cyclops? Aaron, are you serious? They're... enormous. And they have only one eye. One. In the middle of their forehead. Isn't that a bit... strange?"
"It's called 'having a distinguishing feature'," Aaron corrected him. "Besides, what's wrong with it? She's a strong, independent woman. And I guarantee she won't complain if you leave your socks lying around. She'll probably use them to clean her teeth. It's a win-win! And the best part? I've already told her about you."
"You did what?" Paul squeaked, panic beginning to set in again.
"I told her you're a tormented poet, a sensitive soul trapped in a brutal world. She loved it. Said she's always wanted to 'torment' a poet. You're meeting her tonight. Nine o'clock. At the Bridge of Sighs."
"The Bridge of Sighs? Isn't that a little too romantic?"
Aaron shook his head. "No, it's practical. If things go badly, you can always sigh and throw yourself off. I've set it all up, my friend. All you have to do is show up, be yourself, and don't talk about bees."
That evening, Paul arrived at the bridge with the enthusiasm of a goblin heading to the gallows. He wore his best tunic, the one he usually saved for elven poetry festivals. He had combed his hair, which for once had decided to cooperate. As he waited, he saw a dwarf couple walk past, giggling and holding hands. For a moment, he felt a pang of envy. Was it really that hard? To find someone, to connect, to not feel like a walking disaster?
His thoughts were interrupted by a tremor. The stone bridge vibrated slightly, as if from a small earthquake. Then he heard a voice, a hoarse and powerful female voice that bellowed: "ARE YOU THE POET?"
Paul turned and saw her. Angela the cyclops was... impressive. She was at least two and a half meters tall, with muscular arms and a shock of curly red hair. She wore a leather dress that left little to the imagination and was staring at him with her single, enormous green eye, which was the size of a serving platter.
"Y-yes. I'm Paul," he stammered, suddenly feeling very small and fragile.
Angela strode toward him, and her smile revealed a set of very white and very sharp teeth. "Finally! Aaron told me you were a sensitive type. I like you. You have nice ears," she said, reaching out and pinching the tip of his ear with surprising strength. "So, poet. Are you going to show me the stars tonight?"
Paul swallowed hard. "Well, I... I know a few constellations, if you're interested. There's the Big Dipper, the Dwarf Bear..."
Angela burst into a thunderous laugh that startled some pigeons. "Not those kinds of stars, silly elf! I'm talking about the stars you see when you bang your head against the headboard!" She grabbed him by the arm in an iron grip. "Enough talk. Let's go to my place. I'll show you my collection of... poems."
Dragged away like a twig in a storm, Paul cast one last, desperate glance back at the city. Aaron's idea of a "gentle, welcoming hill" had turned into an active and decidedly menacing volcano. Perhaps, he thought as he was hauled toward a night of terror and probable muscle injuries, the dead bees in the cider wasn't such a bad metaphor after all. In fact, right now, it seemed like an almost enviable escape.