A small pub near Fludoscarr.

Well, that was just an aunt, but how the old folks go wild is a whole other story. A friend of mine told me about this... Childhood. Even as a little kid, he was already sowing the seeds of anarchy – he climbed a tree with his friends. As always, out of nowhere, most likely appearing from thin air, came the Furious Avenger – his grandmother. A sweet, sweet grandmother. Her calloused, wrinkled hands trembled, and she gripped her walking stick convulsively. And it wasn't just any walking stick. You know, there are those kinds – combat ones. With blades, a titanium coating, and an energy element. "What are you doing, you cursed scoundrels! The tree is in pain! Oh, you little brats! The tree is growing, and you're sitting on its branches! Get out of here! Take that! Take that!" *Krrrraaaag, krrrraaaag, tish-tish* "Ouch, my hand!" "Get out of here, you little rascal!" Luckily, the little rascal wasn't my friend; he was the one who got it. He couldn't use that hand for a long time because, let's face it, it's hard to run while using a broken wrist with shards of your own bones sticking out, which is gushing hot, dusty asphalt with streams of venous blood from severed and torn vessels, while simultaneously losing pieces of skin and flesh in the rush, which will then be greedily devoured by stray dogs; feeling the hellish pain a minute after the adrenaline rush subsides, and losing life literally through your fingers with each second, while also wondering how your vision is darkening, your ears are ringing, and feeling a wild fear of your parents, who will scold you.