Emilie is standing in field surveying his victory over the bizarre Fimir people from the Island of Albion. He rides over to what is left of their camp and sees three casks of Bretonnian wine sitting on the ground, left behind by the Fimir. One of the advisors was looking over the caskets and holding some paperwork taken from the camp.

“It appears that our diplomatic offering was not met well…”

The Advisor looks up “No Milord… it was not… It appears that the Fimir were offended by the offer of our fine wine and decided to attack… Or they were bored… Or somebody lost a bet… It’s hard to tell with that race.”

“I see. Why would be they be offended by our wine?”

“Well… See those peasants going through uncontrollable spasms near the beer garden? Emilie looks over and sees half a dozen peasants going through uncontrollable spasms of vomiting, screaming, and other bodily fluids too varied to mention.

“By the Lady? What happened to them?”

“Fimir Beer Milord. Fimir beer. It seems that Fimir beer is so strong that they thought we were mocking them with our wine.”


“Maybe… or they thought we sent them barrels of our own urine as a way to poison them… Or, they didn’t even open them and just fired comets at us for fun. They walk around naked, so you never know what they’re like… Damn man-nudity.”

Emilie sighs “As always, your understanding of the situation makes everything clear.”