A Nord, a Chimer, and a Dwemer walked into a cornerclub. "What'll it be, muthseras?" the barkeep asked. "Give me a mug of mead," said the Nord. "I'll have a snifter of shein—the good stuff, mind you," said the Chimer. "Kindly serve me an infusion of chal, a marble, and a leather-sewing needle," said the Dwemer. "Haw, haw," guffawed the Nord. "Shor's bones! The little milk-drinker's going to play pick-up-sticks, but he can handle only one stick!" "At least I don't swear by a god who is not only imaginary, but dead," said the Dwemer, as the barkeep placed his items on the counter.