Let's just skip right to story time today, shall we?

A Problem, And The Peculiar Solution - Part I

"Hah! Beat again, Broth! Don't you think that's the problem, friend? You're not enough of a man to father a son! Twelve daughters, twelve! But not a single lad in the bunch! What are you going to do? Marry them all off and rely on the husband? Or keep them for yourself, eh Broth?" Vronan roared with laughter and punched Broth's shoulder, nearly sending the man off of his chair. "My turn, can't have this bastard of the Corps beat us, now can we? Besides, I think there'd be more in him, fighting someone who makes a living killing the damn things!" He shoved the humiliated man away and thumped into his seat, placing his elbow on the table. "Come on, lad. Let's see what you Dragonriders are made of!" Vronan looked directly into the man's eyes as he placed his elbow on the table, gripping the much larger man's hand. Two small spikes were placed on either side, making sure that the loser would know it. "You know the game: I win, twenty gold pieces, you win, well, how about that?" Vronan nodded towards the unusually large Greatsword leaning against the fireplace. "Fang Ripper, I call her. Slayed many a dragon, she has. She's yours! If you can beat me. That spike, through my hand. She's yours. Otherwise? Well, your pay is gone for the month!" He grinned, revealing a nasty set of yellow teeth. "One, two, three... Hold it, hold it... Go!" The barkeeper yelled, preparing a mug of strong ale for whoever won, and a mug of Firewater for the loser. Vronan frowned deeply as the man from the Corps started pushing on his hand. Slowly but steadily his hand was pushed down towards the spike, the other man starting to smile cruelly and pressing harder. That was his mistake. Vronan gave one, solid push on the other's hand and he let out a loud cry as his hand was slammed onto the spike. "Never, ever underestimate your opponent, lad. You'll get hurt. You'll die, one day. Keep the gold, and take that," he gestured to the hand the young man was now clutching, "As a lesson. Barkeep! That mug of ale, give it to the lad, hand me the Firewater. Need something strong, not that watery slop." Somewhat distressed, the round barkeeper placed the mug of strong ale, and some bandages, in front of the loser, and the Firewater in front of Vronan. "Thank you kindly." He picked up the mug and drained it, a feat not many could brag about accomplishing. But Vronan was a Dragonslayer, a rare breed of men and women doing the most dangerous job known to man: killing wild dragons.
"Lad, get that hand looked at, and your arm. I thought you men of the Corps were stronger than that! But I suppose you rely on your beasts, a pity. One day I'm sure you'll prove yourself." The Dragonslayer went to grab the Greatsword, casually resting it over his shoulder, the blade sitting snugly in strange dent on the plate protecting his shoulder. Even in the blistering heat, Vronan had not removed the heavy plate armour he wore. For as his father had said to him, all those years ago, one cannot know when danger rears its ugly face, and one must always be ready to bash danger's ugly face in with ones fist. His father had been a strange man, Vronan thought, a smile breaking the rugged features of the brute.

How curious. Can anyone guess what'll happen next? :D