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Joll rises out of bed in a panic, metal hand gripping the sheets as his mind catches up through the painful haze of the hangover.
He still had jerky on the rack to collect, and If he left it out any longer all his work would go to waste.
"Go the hell back to sleep," a voice to his left mutters.
Blinking in confusion he turns to stare at Fjolla's bare back.
"Wha-"
"-Got drunk, figure out the rest. Too tired for this, I have lessons to teach in an hour," she mumbles into her pillow while grabbing another one to lay over her head.
Joll blinks, instinctively bringing the blanket up to cover his chest and looks down at the sheets in bemusement.
"It appears that I've been seduced," he mumbles to himself.
Had he been paying more attention, Joll muses, he would have noticed the pillow that slammed into his face.
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Valma grumbles to her right.
"Page five hundred and seven?" Lorna asks, still reading.
"Why!" she shouts, putting down the book, "A fantastic character arc and they bugger the ending with this shoddiness! Why go back to her! The fool!"
Nodding, Lorna turns the page.
"A foul arc! A foul arc I say! The writer's a damn hack who can't tell a plot point from a useless bit of fluff. By Grungni's beard I've seen so many red herrings that I think he's doing it on purpose," her compatriot complains.
"Maybe he is?" she offers.
"I'd rather eat my gruntaz than give this fool any credit! A curse upon him, may he never find a good piece of chuf for the rest of his days, or at least until he fixes this mess!" she responds.
Putting her own book down Lorna turns to give Valma a curious stare.
"What?"
"Chuf? Really?" she asks, getting up out of her chair and heading towards the keg on the nearby table, tankards in hand.
"Well it's just a book, I'm not going to begrudge the fellow over it as some people would. Figured it was an equivalent curse, considering this entire farce was like finding a piece of cheese you loved only to bite into it and realize the centers gone mouldy and
fouler than a compost pile," Valma mutters watching her fellow Runelord walk back with two frothing mugs.
"You know in Azul they're known for their taste of a specific mould infused cheese. Supposedly makes it harder than a rock and gives it quite the kick in terms of flavour," she says upon returning to her seat, passing over a mug of ale.
"Blegh, who would want mould in their cheese?"
"Ask the dwarfs of Azul," Lorna replies, picking up her book once more.
"I very well might do just that!"
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"What do you think?" Dolgi asks chest puffed out in pride.
"You've really poured the Clan's vaults into it at least," his wife replies, patting his shoulder.
"Want to try it out?" He asks, tone eager.
"Not without a priestess of Valaya nearby," she responds flatly.
"It's just a stew, it can't be that bad!" he protests.
"Stews aren't supposed to be that colour. How did you even get it that black?" she wonders, prodding the concoction with a wooden spoon pulled out of...somewhere and slightly recoils when the thing that claimed to be stew jiggles.
Dolgi, heeding the advice of his master, simply accepts his wife's odd ability.
"Ach! I just used the same old spices I use in my troll jerky, a bit of fat, some cream, maybe a dash of some herbs I found to my liking," he explains simply.
Klorah looks at him oddly.
"How is it that you can make such fine jerky yet fumble at so simple a thing as stew?" she asks.
"I don't rightly know, but I'm eager to learn if you're willing to teach me?" he offers with a smile.
Laughing, she picks up the bowl and unceremoniously dumps its entire contents into a nearby bin.
"Alright then, it's no candlelit dinner but I find that I don't much mind," she says.
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"How are the chicks?" Jargrim asks, taking a drink from his tankard.
"They grow well, it shall not be long before they search for their own nests, I am proud of them," He Who's Shrieks Bring Fear or Terrorbeak, replies.
"Time passes oddly doesn't it? I recall you fearing that you'd fail to provide for them not but a minute ago, when it was actually more than two decades since."
"That it is," his friend replies, "How have your efforts fared old friend?"
"Not really in the market, I have my Guild, I have my nieces and nephews, your own little band of terrors. I suppose it'd be a nice thing, but...hmph. Just don't see it you know? Being an uncle is good enough for me, leave most of the lesson teaching to their parents. Least until they come to me to be an apprentice."
"The rearing of chicks does not suit everyone I suppose. So long as you are content in this, so too shall I," the Brana replies.
"Hmph, want to go hunting sometime next month? I got the urge for some jerky," he asks.
"I shall speak with my mate, but I believe it is acceptable," Terrorbeak replies.
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Otrek wakes up blearily, blinking away the lights and darkness until his eye sees the ceiling clearly.
It takes longer and longer to do even that these days, yet he soldiers on and gets on with his routine.
Rising out of his bed, he turns to see Girda still sleeping soundly, breathing quiet and even.
A rare smile graces his lips.
Despite the light aches, he rises out of bed and begins stretching, doing as his Grandmother instructed to stave off the worst of it before he moves over to wake up his wife.
"Girda," he whispers, "Duty calls dear wife."
"Bah, I'm up, I'm up! Hmph, sleep never lasts as long as we want it these days doesn't it?" she mutters, wiping at her eyes.
"The world will not wait for us I fear, I recall you speaking about several meetings on your plate today?" he asks, putting the patch over his scar before moving on to braid his beard.
"Hmph, a few very important ones and some minor ones to help young Ladra. Nothing I haven't done before. Kaggra's doing more and more these days anyhoo. A good thing I reckon, for when the time comes for her and Gloin to take up the mantle."
"They'll have all the time they need," he replies, braiding his beard even while his mind runs over his tasks for the day.
Long, but not as long as in his youth, now that he has been passing on more work to Gloin.
"The campaign season is coming up soon," his wife mentions, "Will you partake?"
He doesn't reply for a while, still braiding his beard as his mind pivots to think the question over.
Girda doesn't seem bothered by his silence, long used to it and knowing him far too well to not know what goes through his mind.
Gripping the amulet at his neck and staring at the closet where the Gift Giver's latest work rests, he makes up his mind.
"Once more into the thick of things I think. Can't have Gloin growing complacent after all," he mutters.
"May Grimnir guide you then," she says, pecking him on the cheek.
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The tavern is named Brunnar's Brewhouse, and it is used to serving rangers returning from patrols in search of a warm bed and a cold drink and tired apprentices at night. The aforementioned old Brunnar cleans mugs and watches his own apprentices with an exacting eye. He serves the clients according to age and time of entrance, grunting and grumbling unintelligibly but still getting his point across despite that. After he serves another pair of bumbling youths, a quiet grunt accompanying the ale they received, he looks at one patron in particular.
At a table with two tankards, a lone figure in a fine red cloak sits by his lonesome, one of the tankards in hand and ignoring the other patrons that mingle and laugh around him. Brunnar can tell that the elder's mind is far away from here, no doubt lost in old memories. Of what he cannot guess, and out of respect he does not ask.
He arrived at the beginning of the night, asked for an obscure brew that Brunnar actually had to check to see if he had in stock, to his internal shame, and has said little save to call for more refills over the course of the night.
But at last, the Elder stirs from his lonely table and ambles over to the counter, a sack of coin in hand and a minor wobble in his step that Brunnar can only discern after centuries of experience picking out those too drunk to continue.
"My thanks Barkeep," he mutters, passing over the bag and waiting for Brunnar to ensure the payment is correct.
To the elder's credit, he is dead on the money. Not short even a single penny.
"Pleasure doing business with you Elder," he says with a nod, finally deigning to speak to a dwarf worth the effort.
"A question before I go, if it isn't too much to ask," the dwarf says suddenly, "But where did you find this brew? I've been searching for years, and only found it here."
Wracking his mind for an answer, Brunnar finally replies after finding the right memory.
"A shipment from when I was a younger man. Foolishly, I forgot to order enough brew for my tavern and had to make up the difference with that batch. In my shame, I never offered it unless asked or had a need to, though I made sure the latter never came to pass. When I moved here, three centuries ago by my reckoning, I brought my whole stock with me."
"All of it," the elder asks," How much?"
Brunnar doesn't even blink, pulling out an abacus to double-check his mental math before giving the elder a number that he manages to pay with another sack of gold on his belt.
"I'll have someone pick it up later, not risking it considering…."
"Aye, any identifying marks?" he says with a nod.
"A red helm," the stranger replies.
He nods again, watching as the elder slowly gets up out of his seat. Against his better judgement, Brunnar sets down the long cleaned mug and asks the question on his mind.
"Is it as you remembered it?"
The old dwarf pauses for a moment.
"Tastes different from the last time I had it, older, but then again so am I. A lot more savouring on my end, at least. Valaya smile upon you Barkeep."
He watches the red cloak disappear out the door.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Gruntaz - Strip of cloth worn round the loins and supposedly eaten in extreme emergencies
Chuf - a piece of old cheese, examples usually found beneath a miner's helmet.
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AN: Happy Valentines Day, ye single and ye relationship'd folk. :^)
