Well, looky here, says an oily voice,
Adventurers.
Somehow it makes the last word sound like a skin disease.
You turn and see a skull lord has entered the bar. It wears an elegant jester's costume, green and purple. Its staff is topped with three ringing bells, radiating the energy of death and damnation.
Ah, yes, says the leftmost skull,
It's almost a heart-warming sight--if we had a heart--
Oh, yes, indeedie-do, interrupts the rightmost skull.
They're like little fledgling chicks chirping in the nest, waiting to gobble up momma's vomit, just moments away from being pushed out into the void to see if they fly or splat like overripe watermelons, continues the leftmost skull.
Ooooh! Can we give them a little push?
Sounds good to me!
The three skulls chuckle.
The middle skull speaks...
Greetings effeminate girly-men sissy-boys. Perhaps you wish to hide in the shadows of this lackluster establishment and drown your sorrow at your own inneffective and meaningless existence in the horse urine that passes as ale. Or perhaps you wish to grasp at some straw of--well, I won't call it fame or heroism in your case--let's just say 'less inneffectiveness and meaninglessness', because--face it--it just won't get any better for a slob like you.
Careful, Fred, you're going to make them cry, says the leftmost skull.
If you think you've got the intestinal fortitude to be a REAL adventurer, then prove it. At TURTLEDOME!. We'd throw down a gauntlet, but we're afraid your puny arms would be too weak to pick it up.
With that, the three skulls laugh. The skull lord, bells a-ringing, kicks his heels and exits the building.
But not before the rightmost skull turns and adds,
Bite my bony butt, meat-boy!