Night time over Annalow was soft and warm like a blanket in cool wind. All inviting nights, as every paradise should be for the city under the Living Goddess, except on this particular night when it rains like it does on this particular night. When it rains, the Mumes resist their natural love of dancing in the tumbling water, instead choosing to hide in their homes and pubs due to the Marfs disturbing play in the storms.
There are 21 pubs in Annalow, most of them distributed even yet randomly along the inside of the round dwelling. At the edge, one of them, The Rusty Goblet, sits brooding this night. A typical pub-sounding-name for a typical pub. There were no doors, only curtains enclosing one entire side fo the building from the downpour and vission of outside interfearence. At one corner was an empty stage yearning for performers of music or poetry on this night. Opposite that, along the closed curtains, was the bar and bar stools filled with patrons who really wanted the slopping sounds outside to stop. In between were tables filled with workers of all races, except Marf and the elusive Felfs. Even Ixxar huddle at an exclusive table, shuddering from the thoughts of the outside celebration.
"It ain't natural, what they do." Said a Mume at the bar. "Why do we have ta' hide like this from those lousy Marfs." He slammed down his pint and marched outside. The pub looked on with interest, watching him leave, waiting, and watching him shudder back to his stool and finish his pint. "Merygold, Another." He called to the womume behind the bar.
"Ya' fool, Tumic Mousenose. Tain't none'a us wild enough to stand the likes out there while the Marf play." Merygold put a bitter in front of the shooken Mume. "Ya' wait, like the rest of us, till the small-folk are finished."
A soft pat came from an old and bearded borc at Tumic's left. "S'aright, I think." Oh no, thought Tumic. Baren's going to reminisce. "This reminds me of my company up north when we happens [sic] to take shelter from a blizzard in an old Marf-hole."
"Baren, No!" Merygold begged.
Baren the Borc spun around, ignoring her, and addressed the pub. "They all had bent noses and chubby cheeks an not a lick of hair, 'cept maybe a whisp on the elder's head. Bald and white like blind worms, but it weren't rain'n up there, cuz it don't rain. It snows, see?"
And Ixxar yells from their table "Borc, I'm willing to give you 20 horns to shut up!"
Baren ignored him, too. "Well, they still celebrate, don't they? The water's fall'n from the sky and they still gotta thing for that. It's just softer."
Tumic planted his head in his hands. "Goddess save us."
And she did.