Weary travelers and wandering minstrels at the local tavern are reporting the tavern is so devoid of demure, plain-faced beauty ever since the wenches went on strike.
“Some things never change, and some do” said wandering minstrel Finnegan Plot, writing a song about unassuming beauty of the kind you could make a house a homestead with. “In one corner of the tavern you have the rowdy huntsmen, back from the annual boar hunt. In the next, you have me, the elfish minstrel singing songs about the days of yore. And yet, nowhere is the demure, plain-faced beauty of the wenches.”
“This place used to be so good,” said rowdy huntsman Robert Kerrigan, clearly missing the pretty-yet-nothing-special wench who used to bring him frothy pint ale and a hearty shepherd’s pie. “One of the wenches would ask me what I wanted for dinner, and I would say, ‘I’ll have me a big ol’ plate of you,’ and she would give me a reproaching look. Now they’re all on strike, and Marty The Hovel Dweller brings the food out with his gross leprosy hand.”
At press time, the royal court is so devoid of hot gossip after the King placed a travel ban on handsome foreign galavanters.

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