“I’m twenty,” Zen corrected. “I came of age this year. And you all?”
“More child than us.” Mortimer chuckled. “We’re midway to thirty. Well, Dante can add a decade to that, but we love him anyway.” He grabbed his own tankard to clatter mugs with the giant, who belched loudly and laughed with him.
If the half-elf was twenty-five, then he was no different from any human at that age, but Zen didn’t want to point out that gnomes, even half-gnomes, were notorious for not reaching adulthood until forty.
Zen slid into the open chair, between the gnome and the elf and across from the giant, feeling as if at any moment this perfect picture of queerness would shatter.
“And you’re all…half?”
“Half what?” Dante grinned with a near manic glint in his eyes. “Half feral? Half mad?”
“Half elf, gnome
