Moxie & Alfirin
Alfirin
Have you ever imagined turning a medieval tavern into a protest stage, complete with brass lanterns, hand‑written banners, and a dash of glitter so that the city council can’t help but pause and wonder?
Moxie
Yeah, I pictured it like a medieval rave, brass lanterns swinging, banners hand‑written with bold, garish slogans, glitter blasting out like confetti. The council would be so stunned they'd drop their quills.
Alfirin
Oh, the image of brass lanterns rattling like rattles, banners draped over wooden beams, glitter swirling like a thousand tiny fireflies—yes, that would be a riot. I can already hear the council’s quills trembling in their pockets, their faces paling, and a single, bemused scribe muttering, “What madness is this?” It’s a brilliant blend of pageantry and rebellion, darling. Just make sure the lanterns aren’t too hot or the council might actually melt.
Moxie
Oh honey, the lanterns will be hot enough to melt the council's coffee but not their brains. We’ll rig them with a wind trap so the glitter stays in the air, not on the mayor’s hat. The scribe’s quill will just turn into a confetti cannon and everyone will fall in love with chaos—at least until the fire marshal calls.
Alfirin
Sounds like a carnival of sparks—just watch the fire marshal’s watchful eyes, or you’ll have to negotiate with them for a temporary “cultural fireworks permit.” Maybe offer them a glitter‑free compromise? It’ll keep the chaos charming and the council a little less scorched.
Moxie
Sure thing, darling. I’ll pull out a glitter‑free set of banners, paint the lanterns like burnt‑oak candles, and offer the fire marshal a backstage pass to the next circus of ideas. If they still demand a permit, we’ll rewrite the whole protest in a single verse—no bureaucracy can tame that.