Abasdarhon's Castle

-- I'll probably come tomorrow.
"Or the day after tomorrow. Or..."
Quint sighed wearily, closing the door of "Clean Hands" and looked longingly in the direction of the tavern. He could use a beer... And why can these creatures spend their whole lives sitting around in taverns, sleeping with prostitutes, and pretending to work, and still be completely satisfied with life, while he, sticking his tongue out, chases after the elusive phantom of wealth and power, tearing the throats of everyone who happens to get in his way, and can't even afford to drink as much as he wants?
"Because they are degenerates," his father's voice suggested.
It was getting dark, and Quint had one more important thing to do – take a look at the burned-out theater. Perhaps it was just a cliché from bad detective stories, but it was still worth visiting the ruins, if only out of curiosity and, perhaps, a sense of duty.

About everyone passing over the bridges
Pip Neurotic

Gagfik, or the phenomenon of dwarven elfism
Judeo and Romletta

The Pretended Dead Man
The Lovirg Barber, or Naive Naivety

The Cucumber Garden
Clouds