"Now that's more like it," the elf cries, and attempts a quick jig before succumbing to a
virulent coughing fit.
The warrioress shakes her head sadly, and says, "Fair's fair, I guess." The dwarf looks torn between sulking at the state of the moral duty in the world today, and escaping the company of the child-like creature, who has brought out a knife and is playing with it. The self-preservation instinct wins.
As soon as he has sufficiently recovered from his brief asthmatic attack, the elf claps a long,
thin hand on your shoulder.
"I know," he confidentially whispers, "this terrific bar in the next village over... it's owned by a personal friend of mine, the Duke of Doonesbury. Him and me... we're like this. And I can tell you, the bartender there mixes a mean--"
The elf breaks off his sentence, and makes an elaborate production out of patting at the various pockets in his cloak.
"Oh dear," he says, his voice dripping with sincere bewilderment, "I seem to have forgotten my money-bag in my other cloak! Oh well, I'm sure you'll stand me for a few drinks... won't you?"
You sigh. Oh well, you think. This is what I get for taking the pacifist's way out.