(no subject)

[toothycat]

Original here.

Once every hundred years of notional time, on the same spot, near a big boulder by the roadside, a group of old friends gathered. This time, too, they came together to talk about life and remember how things used to be.
The level 223 paladin complained that for some months now he had not met a worthy foe. Or anyone at all, for that matter. His holy aura was so strong that all enemies run away as soon as he comes within three arrow flights of them.
The level 181 bard sorrowfully reminisced about the times when he could just sing and dance for pleasure or for a small copper coin. Now, whenever he touched hand to strings or opened his mouth, someone would fall asleep or be filled with battle rage. What room for folk tunes when the folk need moral support?
The level 250 cleric cried into his chainmail tunic. A hundred and sixty levels ago he'd reached the level of demigod; these days not even he himself understood quite what he was. His gods came when he whistled.
The level 199 trader bitterly reported that there was nothing left for him to buy and no-one to sell to. All known trading spots already belonged to him, and his daily income was measured in seven digits. What was he to do with it all?
The level 300 thief was there somewhere too, but of course no-one could see or hear him, so it is not known for certain what he complained of or whether he complained at all. Perhaps that he, so stealthy, could no longer be noticed even if he shouted in someone's ear?
The maxed-out mage sighed that he had nothing left to wish for. He had mastered all the known techniques, learned all the mysteries of being, and had turned into a dark, odious figure, avoided by all. Too mighty, too wise. Too distant from the people.
The heroes sat, indulging in reminiscence and ennui.

And the next morning, a new tavern appeared by the boulder by the roadside. As though it had always stood there. A giant, kind-hearted innkeeper sliced bread and ham with a heavy sword. A tall, fragile musician played the flute. A happy, fat monk offered rounds of beer with drunk generosity, flirted with the barmaids and forgave sins left and right. A visiting trader with burning eyes excitedly lost his savings in round after round of dice. A wandering wizard pulled a rabbit from a hat and stuffed it back. The drunken visitors reported that the tavern even had its own ghost - it could sometimes be seen in deep shadow, with the corner of an eye. The tavern breathed comfort and peace, and all around it for three whole arrowflights' distance there were no bandits or wild predators. Travelers would invariably stop here to share a mug of ale and the latest news.
And, of course, to dream of that wonderful time when they reach their hundredth level.