Morlathion knelt down and began collecting glass shards. There were some bigs one that he could get, and some little ones that would need to be swept up before somebody barefoot stepped on them.
"I meant you no offense, just trying to connect. And no, nobody kicks me out of bars anymore. They used to, but then they realized that I wasn't drunk, that I was just naturally clumsy, and they let me back in. I still can't get anything to lift my spirits though, just water and milk."
He attempts to rise, bangs his head on the table, involuntarily closes his hand tightly, and lets out a yelp of pain. He open his hand and drop the shards on the floor again, but its already too late: his palm has been cut to ribbons. He grabs the cloth that had been covering his lips and shoves it onto his palm.
"I don't suppose any of you are healers? Or do you know of any closeby?"
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Gil-Galad, The Last High Elven King
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