“One thing most people don’t know about elvish women,” Dak said, “is that they are absolutely insatiable.”

He looked at his audience: a filthy gnome in a stocking cap, a leathery hill dwarf and a foul smelling human with a face like an open wound, all leaning forward across the cracked granite table to hear more of his tales of sexual exploit.

“Most people figure a roundeye doesn’t have a chance to get in there with an elvish princess, but it’s not so.” Tendrils of smoke wafted from Dak’s nostrils as he paused for effect.

The leather faced dwarf with the lazy eye looked at him suspiciously, “You mean to say,” he said, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth, “you banged one of them delicious pointy ears?”

“Shut yer face, Kerrik.” The gnome said, “I wa’ ta hear ‘is story.”

“Elvish women,” Dak continued, “are born with a certain… enthusiasm. Problem is, elvish men are so uppity that it can take decades to train one.”

“We humies however,” He said with pride. “Are always willing to please.”