Here comes another one.
It was a night like any other in the Mountain's Thunder tavern. Business had been steady and the ale flowed as freely as ever, but such was to be expected in the mountain stronghold of the Citadel of the Anvil, a bustling dwarven community on the edge of the Torn Ocean.
Mordin Hearthstone was wiping clean the last of the mugs used that evening looking over the common room that had yet to be cleaned. He dreaded doing it each night but he knew it wouldn't take more than a few minutes if he just got to it. The tavern was a traditional dwarven establishment, made for dwarves by dwarves. It had low, stout furnishings made of sturdy wood or stone. The walls were covered with a mural depicting a great victory over goblins who had once ruled the region, a painting that dated back to when Mordin's grandfather had established the tavern almost a millenia ago. Through luck or magic the mural remained intact to every detail, every dead eye of a goblin and every dwarven mouth opened in victorious song could be seen and brought the onlooker back to a time honour and glory.
The only other item of particular note in the room was the bardiche that hung above the mantle of the great hearth. Mordin would have forgotten it was even there, except every new patron ended up enquiring about the magnificent axe when they sat down at his bar. It was a momento from his past when he had taken up the axe against the undead forces of Synost after the Plane Scarring. When the High Seraph immobilized the army and put a halt to the war, Mordin had returned to the Anvil to take over the operations of his father's tavern. Now, his father had passed on and the tavern truly belonged to him.
It was an easy life. Mordin worked hard day in and day out; when he wasn't serving drinks he was visiting the many breweries to replenish his stock. He was relatively well known in the city and got along with most folks so his life had never really been a troubled one. As he looked over the dirty tables littered with mugs and plates and the occasional coin the dwarf found himself wishing that he had just a little more excitement in his day, something to break the monotony of his existence.
The heavy door to the tavern swung open - hadn't he locked that? - and in walked a wee creature. It looked in many ways like a dwarf, but was too small in stature. The male stood a little over three feet but was slight of build except for the slight ponch he sported at his mid-section. A gnome. Mordin cursed himself for his wish under his breath, his heavy brown beard muffling the sound further. He knew that this could only be trouble.
The gnome hopped up onto a stool and beamed a bright smile Mordin's way, folding his hands atop the counter expectantly. "May I have a mug of the house ale, good dwarf?" he piped, the high pitch to his voice grating on the barkeep's nerves. Still, Mordin finished cleaning the mug in his hand and approached.
"Never been one to turn down a customer, 'specially if me door's open." Mordin said suspiciously as he poured the drink and set the mug down in front of the curious gentlegnome. He then moved to the door and ensured that it was locked. He moved about the common room with a tray collecting the scattered dishes. Every time he looked back to the bar he found the gnome staring at him, back to his drink, foam from the ale still visible above the rim. "Ye know, ye still have to pay for the drink even if ye don't drink it." He said, perhaps a little harsher than he intended. Then again, perhaps not.
The gnomes smile never faltered. His gaze flicked over to the hearth and then back to Mordin. "That's a nice axe, master dwarf. Must be a thousand stories that accompany a fine blade like that." It was the same thing he'd heard every day for the past forty years, and Mordin's response was almost mechanical.
"It belonged to me da. Afore the war he gave it to me knowing I'd be needin' it more then him. It's enchanted against the walking dead and I drove a great many o' the buggers back to Synost with it before the High Seraph had his shot."
The gnome nodded as if the short anecdote proved something the gnome had already been considering. "And for forty years it's hung above that fine hearth basking in the praise of your patrons as you regale them with tales of how it struck down the Vampire Lord of the Shattered Peaks. Am I right?"
This gave Mordin pause. He had used the bardiche to destroy Il'Tessan the Vampire Lord of the Shattered Peaks; it had been a horrific encounter that the dwarf had barely walked away from. It was also something that the Jandunian military and the officials of the Citadel kept secret, though he had been well rewarded for his efforts.
"Who are ye?"
The gnome hopped off the stool, the smile never leaving his face, and approached, hand extended. "I am Terry Fairweather, master Hearthstone, and I hail from Great Burrow." Mordin didn't take the offered hand and Terry let it drop. "I can understand your concern, Mordin. Very few people know of your heroics in the Shattered Peaks, a pity, if I do say so myself. We couldn't have that brother of his finding out who you are. I understand that he is one of the few undead that were able to escape the angel's spell, and he still roams the world in search of his brother's killer."
While it had been decades since Mordin had seen combat, his reflexes hadn't slowed a bit. His hand snapped out to grab at the the gnome's collar and he jerked the smug little man to within an inch of his bearded face. "Ye one o' his agents then, boy?"
Terry chuckled as if he wasn't caught in the grasp of a veteran soldier. "Of course not, master dwarf. I am an agent of the Gem Council of Great Burrow, and we are experiencing a problem that could be solved by someone with your unique experience. There, I said it."
Mordin shoved the gnome away sharply and turned to continue gathering dishes. "I'm retired. I run Mountain's Thunder now." He moved back to the bar with the full tray and set it roughly on the countertop. "If ye're having problems with skeletons and zombies, than the Seraph's faithful should be all too happy to help."
Terry hopped back in his seat and finally took a sip of ale. He licked the foam of his lip before speaking. "We do have one such agent who has been sent to assist us. He waits in the Bedrock Inn for me. I was hoping you would meet us there tomorrow evening."
"I think I'll stick to me simple life, Mr. Fairweather." Mordin moved back to the door and unlocked it. Opening it let in the distant thrum of the distant forges, otherwise the street was fairly quiet. "If we're all finished here, I'm closing up. Ye understand." He gestured toward to the street and the gnome nodded and drained his mug. He approached the exit pulling a wide-brim hat from seemingly out of nowhere and placed it on his head. Mordin couldn't miss the emblem on it that marked him as an official of Great Burrow.
Terry looked up at him as he crossed the threshold and then turned to him when he was standing in the street. "Thanks for the ale, Mordin. Hope to see you soon."
Mordin closed the door in the gnome's face. He then turned and wondered why he had to have opened his big dwarven mouth.
Mordin Hearthstone was wiping clean the last of the mugs used that evening looking over the common room that had yet to be cleaned. He dreaded doing it each night but he knew it wouldn't take more than a few minutes if he just got to it. The tavern was a traditional dwarven establishment, made for dwarves by dwarves. It had low, stout furnishings made of sturdy wood or stone. The walls were covered with a mural depicting a great victory over goblins who had once ruled the region, a painting that dated back to when Mordin's grandfather had established the tavern almost a millenia ago. Through luck or magic the mural remained intact to every detail, every dead eye of a goblin and every dwarven mouth opened in victorious song could be seen and brought the onlooker back to a time honour and glory.
The only other item of particular note in the room was the bardiche that hung above the mantle of the great hearth. Mordin would have forgotten it was even there, except every new patron ended up enquiring about the magnificent axe when they sat down at his bar. It was a momento from his past when he had taken up the axe against the undead forces of Synost after the Plane Scarring. When the High Seraph immobilized the army and put a halt to the war, Mordin had returned to the Anvil to take over the operations of his father's tavern. Now, his father had passed on and the tavern truly belonged to him.
It was an easy life. Mordin worked hard day in and day out; when he wasn't serving drinks he was visiting the many breweries to replenish his stock. He was relatively well known in the city and got along with most folks so his life had never really been a troubled one. As he looked over the dirty tables littered with mugs and plates and the occasional coin the dwarf found himself wishing that he had just a little more excitement in his day, something to break the monotony of his existence.
The heavy door to the tavern swung open - hadn't he locked that? - and in walked a wee creature. It looked in many ways like a dwarf, but was too small in stature. The male stood a little over three feet but was slight of build except for the slight ponch he sported at his mid-section. A gnome. Mordin cursed himself for his wish under his breath, his heavy brown beard muffling the sound further. He knew that this could only be trouble.
The gnome hopped up onto a stool and beamed a bright smile Mordin's way, folding his hands atop the counter expectantly. "May I have a mug of the house ale, good dwarf?" he piped, the high pitch to his voice grating on the barkeep's nerves. Still, Mordin finished cleaning the mug in his hand and approached.
"Never been one to turn down a customer, 'specially if me door's open." Mordin said suspiciously as he poured the drink and set the mug down in front of the curious gentlegnome. He then moved to the door and ensured that it was locked. He moved about the common room with a tray collecting the scattered dishes. Every time he looked back to the bar he found the gnome staring at him, back to his drink, foam from the ale still visible above the rim. "Ye know, ye still have to pay for the drink even if ye don't drink it." He said, perhaps a little harsher than he intended. Then again, perhaps not.
The gnomes smile never faltered. His gaze flicked over to the hearth and then back to Mordin. "That's a nice axe, master dwarf. Must be a thousand stories that accompany a fine blade like that." It was the same thing he'd heard every day for the past forty years, and Mordin's response was almost mechanical.
"It belonged to me da. Afore the war he gave it to me knowing I'd be needin' it more then him. It's enchanted against the walking dead and I drove a great many o' the buggers back to Synost with it before the High Seraph had his shot."
The gnome nodded as if the short anecdote proved something the gnome had already been considering. "And for forty years it's hung above that fine hearth basking in the praise of your patrons as you regale them with tales of how it struck down the Vampire Lord of the Shattered Peaks. Am I right?"
This gave Mordin pause. He had used the bardiche to destroy Il'Tessan the Vampire Lord of the Shattered Peaks; it had been a horrific encounter that the dwarf had barely walked away from. It was also something that the Jandunian military and the officials of the Citadel kept secret, though he had been well rewarded for his efforts.
"Who are ye?"
The gnome hopped off the stool, the smile never leaving his face, and approached, hand extended. "I am Terry Fairweather, master Hearthstone, and I hail from Great Burrow." Mordin didn't take the offered hand and Terry let it drop. "I can understand your concern, Mordin. Very few people know of your heroics in the Shattered Peaks, a pity, if I do say so myself. We couldn't have that brother of his finding out who you are. I understand that he is one of the few undead that were able to escape the angel's spell, and he still roams the world in search of his brother's killer."
While it had been decades since Mordin had seen combat, his reflexes hadn't slowed a bit. His hand snapped out to grab at the the gnome's collar and he jerked the smug little man to within an inch of his bearded face. "Ye one o' his agents then, boy?"
Terry chuckled as if he wasn't caught in the grasp of a veteran soldier. "Of course not, master dwarf. I am an agent of the Gem Council of Great Burrow, and we are experiencing a problem that could be solved by someone with your unique experience. There, I said it."
Mordin shoved the gnome away sharply and turned to continue gathering dishes. "I'm retired. I run Mountain's Thunder now." He moved back to the bar with the full tray and set it roughly on the countertop. "If ye're having problems with skeletons and zombies, than the Seraph's faithful should be all too happy to help."
Terry hopped back in his seat and finally took a sip of ale. He licked the foam of his lip before speaking. "We do have one such agent who has been sent to assist us. He waits in the Bedrock Inn for me. I was hoping you would meet us there tomorrow evening."
"I think I'll stick to me simple life, Mr. Fairweather." Mordin moved back to the door and unlocked it. Opening it let in the distant thrum of the distant forges, otherwise the street was fairly quiet. "If we're all finished here, I'm closing up. Ye understand." He gestured toward to the street and the gnome nodded and drained his mug. He approached the exit pulling a wide-brim hat from seemingly out of nowhere and placed it on his head. Mordin couldn't miss the emblem on it that marked him as an official of Great Burrow.
Terry looked up at him as he crossed the threshold and then turned to him when he was standing in the street. "Thanks for the ale, Mordin. Hope to see you soon."
Mordin closed the door in the gnome's face. He then turned and wondered why he had to have opened his big dwarven mouth.