Fulguralis plants the head of his mallet into the ground and leans up against it, panting. The exceedingly odd man next to him hands him a red ticket. Fulguralis nods and exchanges it for the long wooden hammer.
"Well done," the man says. "Would you like to go again?"
Fulguralis shakes his head. "No, no. I've had enough for today."
"You'll be back tomorrow, though?" the man asks with a wink.
Fulguralis grins. "Of course."
As he turns, the Faire attendant is already hollering at other passerby, having moved on from the warlock. Darkmoon island has been quite busy since the re-opening of the fair. Fulguralis has to admit, the fair-folk had done a great job with the place.
"Stomping good time, was it not?"
Fulguralis turns to the Gilnean addressing him. "Yes. It was, wasn't it?"
The man had been whacking the stuffed moles alongside him in the both just now. Fulguralis did not recognize him at first. The warlock finds that a certain... haze settles over his brain while he's playing this particular game. He doesn't see the other gamers around him, but merely focuses on where that next felling mole will pop up. Then... WHACK.
It really was a lot of fun. A great way to blow off some steam too, even if it was a bit closer than the warlock usually fought. Maybe there's something to this melee business?
Fulguralis lets his gaze roam over the friendly stranger. The man appears to be wearing, of all things, a leisure suit of crushed blue velvet with a frilly white undershirt poking out through the chest. Brown hair arranged just-so, thick black glasses, and terrible, terrible teeth complete the ensemble.
Ever since those damn Ethereals showed up, fashion's been... strange to say the least, Fulguralis reflects. Especially among the Gilneans.
"I've been rather thrilled with the Faire. Certainly has taken my mind off the war," the Gilean admits.
Fulguralis simply nods. He supposes that is one good reason to go to the Faire: to escape the realities of the struggle against Deathwing. Wasn't really why he was there, but a valid reason nonetheless.
"I'll admit it," the Gilnean continues. "There are really only two things that scare me, and one is Dragon War."
Fulguralis takes the bait. "What's the other?"
"What's the other thing that scares you?"
The man leans in close. "Carnies. Circus folk. Nomads, you know. Smell like cabbage. Small hands." He flexes his fingers before leaning back with a shudder.
Fulguralis looks around at the Faire and all of the scurrying attendants. He raises an eyebrow.
"So, why are you here?" the Gilnean asks.
Fulguralis shrugs. "The tickets?"
The strange man cocks his head at the warlock. Unwilling to be rude, he changes the subject. "Ah look. A cannon. And they'll shoot you from it. Just my sort of thing. After all, Danger is my middle name." Just then, a rather scantily clad, plate-wearing woman walks by. "Hello, hello," the man says, attaching to her like a Gnomish magnet.
Fulguralis rolls his eyes as the man leaves. All sorts of folk at the Faire.
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