Let me tell you about the time a dim-witted thief tried to break into my wizard’s tower. It was a night as dark as a goblin’s backside, and I was minding my own business, brewing a potion that could curdle a dragon’s milk, when I heard this clattering outside.
Pfft, as if I wouldn’t notice. I peeked out my window and saw this lanky, sneaky fella with a sack over his shoulder, fumbling with the lock on my door. Dumbass probably thought he was as quiet as a mouse, but he made more noise than a dwarven banquet hall.
So, I grabbed my trusty hammer – never trust those fancy magic wands – and stomped outside. The look on that thief’s face when he saw me! You’d think he’d seen a ghost, or worse, his mother-in-law. I growled at him, “What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” He stuttered something about being lost. Lost! Right in front of my door, with lockpicks in hand. Must’ve thought I was born yesterday.
I was about to give him a taste of dwarf hospitality with my hammer, but then, the blithering idiot tried to run. As graceful as a one-legged troll, he was. I didn’t even need to chase him; he tripped over his own feet and landed face-first into my potion waste bin. Served him right.
While he was down, groaning like a wounded boar, I lectured him on the finer points of choosing a target. “Listen, you halfwit, if you’re going to be a thief, at least have the brains to pick on someone who can’t squash you like a bug.” I think he got the message, judging by the way he nodded, his face still stuck in the goo.
As a parting gift, I turned his sack of tools into a sack of toads. Seemed fitting. With a swift kick in the rear, I sent him on his way, wiser, I hoped, but probably just more scared.
So that’s the tale. Thieves these days, they’ve got no sense, no finesse. Back in my day, we knew how to handle a lockpick without making a racket. If you’re going to be a nuisance, at least be a competent nuisance, I say. Now, where was I with that potion…