Interlude 5: The Grudge (Patreon)

He sat under a table. Nursing his eye and his grudge. This could not be, this could not stand!

He drank from his tankard, and reveled in the taste of nostalgia, herbs, and millennia of dwarven traditions. The First Brew was perfect, and nothing could tell him otherwise. Every dwarf knew in their bones that beer was the greatest drink ever created, and nothing could improve upon it. Especially some swill made with lemon water! A tankard splashed down to the ground beside him, and the awful smell of lemon mixed with beer came with it. He shuddered, and his grudge grew deeper.

Even now he could hear the fighting going on. Good dwarves fighting over the very root of what it meant to be a dwarf. There were always fights, but they were small things, like: Who had brought in the most ore that day? Who had the prettiest beard? Who was more poncy, elves or dragons? These were the fightin' words of dwarves every day all around Crack. Yet today, he was witnessing a terrible thing: a fight over the taste of beer.

What dwarf could imagine such a thing? Certainly not he. He glowered across the room at the Dwarf responsible. The nether-spawned monster that had ruined his comfortable existence. The culprit stood there so demurely, sipping his tankard without a care in the world. Not caring about the doom he brought to dwarven society.

He would never let it happen, COULD never let it happen. Oh, Peter Samson may have them all fooled with his fop routine, but he knew the sharp mind that hid behind those glazed eyes. He had even been fooled for a while! He had watched the entire desecration and not even realized what was happening until it was too late.

Tim wished he had kicked the pot of syrup off the oven and drowned Pete in the beer. He pulled open a hand-mirror and glanced at his face. His beard, his glorious beard that the ladies all adored, had been shaved half off. Tim could even see his chin beneath the stubble. He glowered at the image before him, hating it just as much as he hated Peter right now. To shave off another dwarf’s beard was the most incredible of insults, and it hadn’t slowed the brawl even a bit. Tim wished he’d never come here, never met the monster named Pete, and never seen the desecration of The Brew.

Oh Sofia! How he missed her. How he needed her. Her breathtaking and supple curves. Her mahogany complexion and amber highlights unmatched by any in all of Crack! Oh Sofia! There was nothing he loved more than to drip oil down her sides and rub it in; his fingers caressing leather as he inhaled her intoxicating and exotic scents. Truly, there was nothing better than his Sofia.

Indeed, his desk had been more precious than his own life. He had poured every ounce of his spare gold, and even some of the city’s funds into her. Was it not important that the front desk clerk of city hall show the power and majesty of Minnova? How better to do that than with fine woods and oils from the dungeon? He had showered Sofia with so much love that he had received the Blessing of Tiara! He had thought that everyone in the central administration building would share in his joy!

Instead, the Administrator had confiscated his desk and thrown him into prison. This awful, retched, prison that had spawned a threat to all that was dwarvish. Tim’s jaw grew tense and he re-opened the hand mirror. He pulled out his belt knife and began to shave. First the jaw, and then the mutton chops, first he shaved it short, then he shaved it off. When there was nothing left but a moustache, he shaved that off too.

Pete wanted to ruin what it meant to be a dwarf? Well, Tim would throw it all away, and then STOP him. He would sacrifice himself so that no dwarf would ever need to suffer so again.

*Bing*

Your curse has drawn the attention of Yearn! Will you receive her blessing? If you accept you will receive a title!

Yes/No

With a hooked smile, Tim mentally clicked on ‘Yes’.

Beneath a table in the middle of a brawl, a newly titled [Swindler] laughed and laughed and laughed.

Nobody heard.