Inside the Iron Calliope

The whistles coming out of the Iron Calliope almost sounded like music which meant the bar was having a sparking good night. Sure enough, as I ducked past the pipes that crowded the doorway, I could see Pullem Toot, the goblin owner, leaping to and fro among the mess of hanging pulleys that controlled the flow of beer. As he did so, his movements made the modified piping sing. Dozens of conversations competed to be heard above the music.

Catching sight of me, Pullem called out over the noise, “Hey Mac, find yourself a booth. Right now I'm busier than a two-cocked minotaur."

I motioned that I'd head to the back. He shook his head. "No room. Pack of stinking gnolls drinking like their favorite sister-whore just died."

It was always a mystery how I could hear him over the din. It was an equal mystery that no one had crippled him for his humor. I guess it was expected from goblins. I knew that if I said half of what he did, I'd be sporting a few more scars.

Folding my arms, I leaned against a wall and waited.