The awkward spark of unwanted joy

There was a lull in the conversation in the tavern, when suddenly the door slammed open, probably harder than necessary, making several patrons jump. "HOWDY BOURBON!" Morkplok walked into the tavern, his blindingly red hair waving with his tred, his shirtless skin gleaming with water. He carried his spear over his shoulder, three large fish impaled on the end of it. "I got those fish you ordered! You want them here or should I go round the back?"

He looked around and saw a number of grim-looking faces staring at him. "Yikes," he said, his smile not faltering in the least. "What is this, a funeral?"

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