Fandral had not been to Midgard enough to bother with the local fashions. Even if he had come more frequently, it would not have dissuaded him from his fine armor, rich tunic, and his mustache that was carefully plucked and positioned upwards. After all, what did it matter to him if Midgardian fashion was so woefully crude?

And yet somehow, his adventures had brought him to a bar. He did not recall what the city was called, but he and his fellow warriors had vanquished a great foe only miles at the city's outskirts. They returned home victorious. Fandral, ever persistent and too curious for his own good, had stopped here to drink, boast, and impress any woman who would grant him attention.

But first, he needed a drink. He slapped down a large, golden coin onto the counter. "Bring me your finest ale!"