“No, no, no.” Tinnaire grimaced again, looking over her handiwork. This was too embarrassing.
She was talented. She knew what she was doing. She knew how anatomy worked. She knew countless ways of fixing this disaster. Or would have, but the client just kept insisting. It MIGHT have been cute. Maybe. Given a little more time and a little less indelicacy in subject. She could have done something with it that wouldn’t be … this.
“Oh yes, my dear! YES.” The goblin beamed and his teeth glinted gold.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Definitely am, toots!”
“It looks atrocious!”
“I think you mean it looks PERFECT.”
“... I’m not signing my name.”
“Fine by me. I paid ya. Our deal is done. I’ll take all the credit for this genius!”
“...” He had paid her well.
“Looks great, I mean it kid. Thanks a heap.”
And with that the Bilgewater representative took a crate of small worpletinger taxidermied specimens. The tiny, frollicking bodies spelled out “Bilge Brew” when placed on the marquee he’d made. He was going to enchant bubbles coming from them. Creatively.
Not all decisions made during Brewfest were good ones.
… Maybe it was time for a beer of her own. She needed to tell this story to someone. Someone NOT in Kalimdor. She wanted to be as far away from that thing as possible. She pulled out her comm unit and began walking toward the magus portals.
~Raxwel, friend. I have a ridiculous story to tell you. Meet you in Dun Morogh at the festival? Taxidermy disaster stories are always best drunk and in good company. I have pictures.