The Ratkin bombardier crashes through the tavern door, scattering patrons. One of the bombs on its belt clinks loudly. He looks around, clearing his throat. “Anyone here lose a, shall we say, slightly unstable batch of experimental explosives? No? Good, then I’ll just be taking my seat by the fireplace.”

The Ratkin shaman strides confidently into the bustling inn. He approaches the barkeep, holding his staff aloft. “I require a table with good sightlines and a large plate of whatever hasn’t been touched by human hands,” he declares. The barkeep blinks. “So, you mean the bread basket?” The shaman sighs, “Precisely.”

A group of adventurers corners the rat-folk in a dark alley. The warrior shouts, “Surrender, vermin! Your thieving days are over!” The rat-folk deftly dodges an attack and retorts, “Thieving? Sir, I prefer the term ‘strategic reallocation of unattended goods.’ It sounds far less… squeaky.”