Three men sat around a tavern, sharing a round of drinks. They did not know each other, having barely learned the others' names but moments ago, yet the liquor in their veins made them fellows. They were adventurers all, each hailing from different parts of the world, possessing different stations, and having lived quite different lives. The only things common between them were their love of good drink and their thirst for adventure. One man, dressed in scholarly robes, sipped reservedly at a crystal glass of wine while watching his comrades-in-drinks with a keen eye. The magical light from the tavern's crystal lanterns colored his shiny spectacles as he chuckled mirthfully at the antics of acquaintances. A pair of long, tapered ears cut lithely through his flowing, silver hair—an elf, and one who was clearly quite the studied academic.
The man to his right cut an entirely different figure: a human warrior whose face was framed by a thick, curly beard. His black armor bore the insignia of a knight's lance, a stylized depiction of the massive weapon that lay against the cobblestone wall beside him. This armored lancer clutched a heavy stein in his gauntlet, swinging it about as he ranted boisterously; so animated was his tirade that the chair behind him had been kicked over.
The third man—the strangest in appearance of the trio—sat leaned back in his chair, his booted feet resting on the table before him. Two bestial ears, like those of a wolf, stuck out from the top of his head. Behind him, spilling through a gap in his seat, was a great, bushy tail that swayed in metronomic arcs. A bottle of cheap whiskey rested against this third man's fingers, tilted slightly off the tavern's cold floor as his arms hung lazily over the back of his chair. In some parts of the world, this beast-like man's people would be called lycan, but he would call himself "roguishly handsome", or, depending on his mood, "a bit of a bastard".
The elf scholar, the human warrior, and the lycan rogue. It was by chance these three men had found themselves seated at the same table, but their company made for a fine combination. They had spent the night enjoying each others' company, swapping stories, laughing, and imbibing in drink. As the night wore on, however, their conversation turned, inevitably, to a more risque topic—as it often does.
"Alright lads ... No holds barred! We've got ta settle this," the human warrior declares, slamming his stein down upon the table with a clatter. His companions all looked up at him, waiting for his next words.
"The old man's right," the lycan rogue agreed, rolling his fingers around the neck of his bottle. "It's high time you lot realized the genius of my tastes."
"Now, now, my friends ... Let us be civil," the elf scholar said, raising a hand to calm them. He spoke with the certainly and eloquence of a college professor delivering a lecture. "We all know that a gentleman's heart is his own, but nonetheless, I would also like to plead my case."
The topic of their discussion was one thing, and one thing only: "${question}"
The human warrior, ever eager to espouse his personal wisdom, was the first to speak. "Lads,