Dwarves and Elves and Gnomes, Oh My!
The iron flagon slammed down on the wooden table with a loud thud. Wiping the froth from his beard with the back of his sleeve, the dwarf let forth a loud belch, and proceeded to complain.
“Blasted humans! Why can’t they brew a drought that puts hair on your chest, and not just puckers your sphincter?!!”
Airick looked at him amusingly. “You know my friend, I think you sometimes forget that I am human.”
“Nay my lad. But thar is somethin’ special about ya’ – I feel it in me bones! You’ll prove me right someday, I just know it. Now why don’t ya’ be a good lad and fetch me another pint o’ stout!”
Airick looked at him quizzically for a moment, raised an eyebrow, and headed off to the bar to fulfill the dwarf’s request. It was in his nature to please others, and there was something about dwarven ‘gratitude’ that he seemed to enjoy. So, he was happily inclined to oblige.
The dwarf watched him fade into the crowd with a mix of fascination and trepidation. He found the young man to be unusually amenable (for a human), and he couldn’t deny Airick knew how to make him laugh, which is not always easy to get a dwarf to do if he does not want to! But apparently, the boy also had a mind for detail, and already knew much more about the dwarf than would normally comfort him.
Thinking back to his home in Mithral Hall, his thoughts drifted off to when his cousin’s family had stayed with his own for several years, before his own father had been killed in the mines. His cousins had since returned to Neverwinter to resume the family ‘business’ and so it seemed the most likely waypoint after leaving home on his own personal journey. He reminisced of the deep mines left behind, and the dangers that had been wrought and overcome over the millennia of dwarven history…
“Forgrim!”
The dwarf startled as lithe fingers snapped quite loudly right in front of his bulbous nose.
“Forgrim! Wake up! Or are you conversing with your god again?”
Airick had returned with a fresh pint of stout now on the table before him. The dwarf glanced up at him, and quickly regained his senses as he noticed a dark-haired elf standing next to his new friend.
“Who’s the goldnose?” the dwarf inquired somewhat belligerently.
“This is Roric, a friend I met while in school in Silverymoon.”, Airick said as he introduced the Moon Elf. Airick had managed to earn some coin on the streets of Neverwinter when he was younger entertaining humans, dwarves, and all other kinds of good people in the city. When he had saved enough, he managed to send himself to the legendary College of Fochlucan in Silverymoon, a well-known institution for training bards in the North.
The dwarf, feeling somewhat ashamed of the hasty declaration, took to his feet. “My apologies elf – if you’re a friend of Airick here, then you’re likely o’ good stock! Might I get ye’ an ale for your troubles?”
“Well met, dwarf! Fortunately, I am accustomed to the manners of dwarves, and like many of my kind, I am not easily bothered by them. Plus, I must agree, the good word of our friend here carries long. Many thanks for your offer, but my Feywine should be here shortly.”
Forgrim nodded his head and resumed his seat on the bench. Airick smiled with a sense of pride and gratification as he asked Roric to join them at their table. Encouraging him to make himself comfortable, while gently jibing that even the demeanor of a dwarf was unable to flush his bluish skin.
“So, what brings you to Neverwinter?” he asked Roric.
“Well, there was little reason for me to stay in Silverymoon quite honestly. Mother has returned to the High Wood. Both those places are now on the road behind me. Many rumors now spread through the land of this city’s renewed prosperity and opportunity. Here seemed as good a place as any to continue my path. Indeed, fate bodes well that I should encounter you so soon upon my arrival.”
“And what path be that?” Forgrim inquired.
“I am a seeker of ancient knowledge, looking for forgotten lore that could help restore a homeland for my kin. I once hoped to be part of the rebirth of Myth Drannor, but that dream has since faded.”
“Ya, those forsaken Netherese – I heard tale of what they done pulled on your kind! Many of me own kin have given their lives to help bring Gauntlgrym back into our hands. I feel your grief. No tell what a dwarf without a homeland would do.” Forgrim was showing unusual empathy towards the elf. Perhaps because he was still somewhat remorseful for his earlier comment. But more likely, it was the batch of Tanagyr's Stout that had recently arrived from the Moonsea, which was not even on the menu. Airick had figured that would put some hair on the dwarf’s chest.
Airick pulled his lute off his back and began to tune it as he looked to Roric. “Well, Forgrim and I have been making plans for the spring. His god has also put him on a ‘path’, and I’ve decided to go along for the fun of it. But we’ve decided to wait for the warmer weather.”
The elf looked curiously at the dwarf’s chest for a moment, and then asked “Indeed, I consider myself well-versed in many cultures and faiths. But I must confess, I am not familiar with the symbol upon your breast. To whom belongs your allegiance?”
Forgrim paused for a moment, and then quaffed down the remainder of his beverage.
“If you gonna’ keep talkin’ like that, either you or I are gonna’ need a lot more of this,” the dwarf slightly slurred, as he slammed down yet another empty mug. “But I’ll be happy to tell ya’ of Moradin, the creator o’ all dwarves! Forged us dwarves 'ere we came to the Realms. He spoke to me after the Duergar attacked our mines, and told us the fraggin’ Drow were behind the assault!”
The otherwise stoic face of the elf suddenly sneered in derision at the mention of his forsaken kin. The Drow had also occupied Myth Drannor for centuries, and he held only contempt for them. Roric now felt compelled to return the dwarf’s empathy.
“And I too, feel your pain. When elves are killed in battle, we do not pass onto our promised realm, our spirit is cast to the void. Such a death robs us of not just life, but our afterlife as well. Such a deed could never go unpunished among my own. Irinal deserve no compassion”
Forgrim looked in his empty flagon, and realized more was needed. Before another word left the dwarf’s lips, Airick stood up once more, saying “I’ll take care of it.” He paused, looking at Roric, who gently nodded his head, and then proceeded back to the counter to procure another round of beverages for the trio.
“So, if Moradin created the dwarves, then he must be an elder power. Why is it I have not heard of him?”
The elf was very intrigued. He had lived for more than a century and witnessed one of the most tumultuous periods in all the history of Toril. He had also traveled many lands, heard from many peoples, and certainly was not unfamiliar with dwarves. Thus, hearing of this deity for the first time genuinely piqued his interest.
Forgrim was sincerely engaged, and felt a rush surge through him as he realized this was his first real opportunity to spread the word of his god, as he had been tasked to do. He eagerly spoke of how his god was a cosmic traveler, known in many places outside the Realms. His understanding was that Moradin had to depart Toril during the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked the land in mortal form. But since the Second Sundering, when the overgod Ao healed the wounds of the planet left from the Spellplague, Moradin was once again able to reach out to his people.
By the time Forgrim had finished his homage, Airick had returned with more Feywine and stout for his friends, and a half-pint of lambic for himself. It was a berry variety that had been shipped in from Amn several weeks ago, and he was always willing to try something new and different. Making himself comfortable after passing out the drinks, he looked over to Roric.
“So, in the absence of any immediate plans, what say you join us in our travels?”
“In your company I know my time is well-kept,” the elf raised his cup in toast. “But wonder if I should heed a saying of my kin which insists it is better to have a bad knife than a good dwarf!”
Roric winked mirthfully at the Forgrim as he said this, who wasn’t quite sure how to take the comment. Indeed, the expression itself seemed quite unusual, but nevertheless sincere coming from the elf. The dwarf’s brow furrowed for a moment as he glanced over at the bard, who was virtually mimicking the elf’s countenance, while obviously trying to stifle more than just a snicker, as he too raised his cup. The dwarf paused.
“Aw, com’on Forg, you did call him a ‘goldnose!’” Airick interjected.
Forgrim looked back to the elf, and then again to Airick, as he robustly grabbed his flagon, sloshing stout all across the table. He then briskly rushed the heavy metal container towards the other two cups, but pulled back at the last moment, stopping just short of making contact, only then to flex his wrist forward and tap them with a clank.
“Aye, just messin’ with ya’ lads” the dwarf guffawed, concluding with another long quaff of stout that left large tufts of foam in his beard.
The other two joined in the laughter as they drew down their drinks. Forgrim, once again, wiped the froth from his beard with the back of his sleeve, and Airick started playing on his lute. Simple, brief chords that were very subtle, leaving the listener to wonder if he was playing with purpose, or experimenting with portions of a new song.
Roric relaxed a bit in the chair he had chosen, taking another sip of his wine.
“So, tell me of current tales here in the city? Far be it for an elf to seem impatient, but if I am going to wait out the winter with you roughshods, I’ll be needing something to occupy my time.”
As they continued to drink, the local boys told the elf how there was probably a lack of mercenary-type work since the Many-Arrows orcs had finally been driven out of the River district about a year earlier. Lord Neverember had been sending back the Mintarn mercenaries he had hired as the local militias have recently been growing in ranks, but they had only been accepting local recruits to ensure loyalty.
Conversation drifted from talk of current events, to local and regional lore. Regrettably, coherence and relevance quickly drifted off, as is often the case when inebriates are involved. The three got along famously, trading stories and barbs until the wee hours of the morning.
Over the next four months, the group made this their home away from home. Most evenings would find them gathered round the same table at the Fallen Tower Tavern. They usually arrived well before the nightly influx of patrons to secure the table. The Fallen Tower was well-known for a unique spectacle. The tavern indeed rested on the site of fallen tower that once belonged to a wizard of significant power. But that wasn’t what drew the crowds.
When the tower fell in centuries past, it was cast down by its owner in a final effort to keep it (and him) from being taken by a force of opposing mages. Somehow, a soundless phantasm of the mage and two of his foes, falling to their deaths, was seared into the fabric of space and time, and reappears every evening at the same moment the tower was destroyed. Even during the Spellplague, when all magic seemed lost to the Realms, the image of the three mages persisted, and still can be viewed to this day. It was this display that drew both Forgrim and Roric to this particular tavern, when they first arrived in Neverwinter.
Many an hour was spent sharing personal histories, and dreaming of grand adventures for the spring. But in truth, none of them really knew what they would be doing, as long as it got them moving. Though there was much to do in Neverwinter, none of them felt their fate was to be found here, even with the prospect of free land in the southeastern portion of the city. None of them, Airick included, felt they could make a home for themselves here.
The elder pair, were quite predictable in their choice of beverages. Forgrim had developed a particular liking to the Tanagyr, and Roric preferred his Feywine. Airick had a penchant for trying the latest varieties, imports, and clearances. He was sampling some Belbuck - a green spearmint-flavored beer made by halflings – but he wasn’t too sure he liked it very much.
Other than the human’s choice of drink, they had very much settled into a rut. But tonight, the conversation was different. After a second taste of his Belbuck, still debating his appreciation for the brew, he looked towards the elf.
“So, Roric… it looks like we have a job. Forgrim and I know this dwarf named Gundren. He’s the reason I know Forgrim. Anyways, him and his brothers have been traders here in Neverwinter since before Hotenow tore loose. He came to us today saying he needs someone to deliver a wagon of goods to this village, a few days south of here. Hoping you’re interested, because we leave tomorrow.”
Roric, almost choked on his wine as he set down the cup, and gracefully wiped his mouth.
“Always in a rush, aren’t you?” he asked Airick.
“Well, actually Gundren is the one in a rush. He’s leaving first thing in the morning… some big secret. He has to get down there soon, and has no time to haul the wagon. But he’s willing to pay us! I got him up to fifteen gold for each of us!”
“Yeah, but now he’ll only pay five o’ us, and he’s expecting some skill for his coin!” the dwarf injected.
“What does that matter?” asked Airick. “There’s only three of us anyways. We’ll do fine.”
“Sorry lad, you may know many things up there in that head o’ yours, but you don’t know spit about hauling goods. We need more than three o’ us for sure. Someone has to guide the wagon while we keep an eye on both the front an’ back o’ it. Plus, a scout to let us know before we get into any trouble would definitely be handy. Even then, it’ll be hard to keep an eye out for any raiders.”
“I have to agree with him” added Roric. We need more than the three of us, but you have not left us much time to enlist companions.”
“Maybe Gundren knows someone else who is willing to help us?” Airick suggested.
“If Gundren knew anyone else he could trust, he wouldn’t have asked a rascal like yourself to watch over his goods! Normally, he’d be sending Nundro and Tharden to take care of something like this. But we haven’t seen them for weeks! But you should feel special kid…. Us dwarves don’t easily trust anyone outside their own families.”
“Ok, so how do we find someone who is willing to head to Phandalin with us?”
Airick’s question was met with a brief silence as they each had some of their drinks.
But as each one moved their cup or flagon from their nose, they were somewhat startled to see a small gnome, suddenly sitting on the edge of the table.
“Hullo. Fenthwick Balabar McGibbins, at your service. But you may call me ‘Wick.’ Mind if I join you?” The gnome said with a smile. Or at least as much of a smile as could be discerned beneath his bushy white moustache.
Dwarves never like surprises. So, if Forgrim was indeed caught off-guard at the unexpected appearance of the gnome, he did an excellent job hiding it. Airick, having never seen a gnome before, appeared not unlike a child in a candy-shop, virtually speechless. But Roric was familiar with gnomes – especially forest gnomes, who were quite rare.
“Roric Throasar of Evereska. Well met!” the elf introduced himself. “So, for what reason do we find our presence graced with that of a forest gnome such as yourself?”
“Seriously? An elf, a dwarf, and a human? If I wouldn’t be welcome at this table, where else do you think I would fit in?”
Forgrim looked at him suspiciously for a moment, and then looked around the room. “Good point, but where did you come from? I didn’t even see you sit down!”
“Been here the whole time. Since the barmaid brought your drinks.” Wick removed his goggles in hopes of displaying his sincerity. “So, I heard a little bit of your conversation. Sounds like you could use a little help?”
Dwarves also don’t like being spied on. But Forgrim was already considering the wisdom of having someone so stealthy at their side. Gnomes were also known for their trustworthiness, and the dwarf likened to the idea of not being the shortest member of the party. So, he kept his anger in check and decided to play along for a bit.
“No offense my new friend, but it appears to me you barely count fo’ one, much less two?” he chided.
“Ah, yes. An understandable misperception. I have a friend in mind who would be willing to join us.” Wick responded without hesitation.
Almost on cue, a small field mouse crept out from the gnome’s robe, and made its way toward the bread bowl. The remaining three each tried to repress a smirk to differing degrees. Not sure how to interpret the response, he glanced toward each of them until he also noticed the critter on the table.
“Ah, well…. Yeah… That’s Bitty.” Wick stammered. “But that’s not the friend I meant. I have another friend who is very good in the wild, sneakier than I, and a very good shot at range.” Looking toward Roric, he added “she’s also an elf - well partly anyways.”
Wick quickly collected Bitty back into his robe, handing the mouse a piece of stale bread she had claimed from the bowl.
Airick finally overcame his fascination and joined the conversation.
“So where is this friend of yours?” he asked.
“She’s not the kind of folk who likes being around crowds and inside cities. She’s waiting for me outside the East Gate. I’m here to collect some provisions and grab a real drink while I’m here. Speaking of which… where is that barmaid?”
Roric raised his hand to call her over to the table. “Allow me, little one. So, I must confess, I am not used to seeing your kind quite so visible among humans, much less willing to be seen in such a place. Why would you want to travel with us?”
The gnome pondered his question for a moment, and then responded somewhat reluctantly, “Let’s just say I’ve had my fill of trying to keep a home. It’s been almost impossible in recent years!”
A female half-orc approached the table, with a platter in hand. Kursha was unusually amenable for one of her stock, and she had developed a rapport with the group. But her woe to the those who found her bad side, for she was known to put the fear of Asmodeus into ill-behaved patrons.
“All ready for another round?” she asked, noticing the gnome sitting on the table. “Oh, who’s your friend?”
“This here is Wick” replied Roric, then looking to the gnome, he inquired, “So what’s your poison?”
“I don’t suppose you have any Gorondy Wine?” Wick queried the barmaid. Her quizzical stare was all the answer he needed. “Never mind, I’ll just have half-o-pint of Evermead.”
“A good choice” stated Roric… “I think I’ll join you. Make that two Kursha, if you please?”
“What? No more Feywine? Good thing you elves can handle your booze… that mix’d put a dwarf under the table! No offense Forgrim.”
“None taken lass. I wouldn’t even mix the two!”
Connecting the dots, the gnome extended his hand to the dwarf. “So, you must be Forgrim?”
“Ah, yes, that be me.”
Roric then stood up apologetically, “Please, forgive the manners, or lack thereof of my friends. This here is Airick, the only one of us who grew up here in Neverwinter.” Airick also stood and raised his hand in greetings, still somewhat tongue-tied.
“Pleased to meet you all!” Wick stated enthusiastically. “So, what say you? Willing to add a very handy gnome and a sharpshooter to your crew? Did I hear correctly, fifteen gold for each of us? I promise you, you won’t regret it!”
Forgrim looked to Airick, and then to Roric. Airick was still blinded by fascination, but he could sense no sign of reservation or trepidation in the elf’s demeanor. By now, he had grown to trust the judgement of the elf, if not his always well-chosen words. “Well, it certainly solves our problems” exclaimed Airick.
Roric nodded.
Kursha had returned with the next round of drinks in time for Forgrim to concur. “Aye! Then, it seems we have our crew of five, lads!”
The four raised their glasses, and made a toast to their endeavor, and newly forged companionship. Wick stayed only a little while longer so as not to keep his friend waiting. He described where they could be found once they left the city, and bid his farewell until the ‘morrow. Meanwhile, Airick, Rorick and Forgrim enjoyed one last night of their late-night ritual at the Fallen Tower. In the morning, Airick and Forgrim would say goodbye to their families, hoping - neigh expecting - the new day to be the beginning of a long adventure.
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