Escape from Valn

 

Part- 8

The Dwarf and The Tower

          Stolid as a boulder, the fiery haired dwarf guzzled the spicy grätzer of his homeland as though he was merely inhaling the thick brew. The full-bodied taste of oak smoked wheat and dark roasted barley washed over his tongue, reminding him of the brauhauses of Grundliche Hohle, and taking him home, if only for a moment. He lowered “The Tower” wiping the excess liquid from his beard with the side of his arm. Beoric belched and smiled grimly as his eyes roved over the intricate details of the great stein in his hand. “The Tower” it was called, and rightly so for it lived up to its name in nearly every aspect of the word- it stood a full mug and a half taller than the usual flagons and completely resembled the edifice for which it was named. Its lathed form and graven sides were hewn and etched to look like the ivy strewn walls, windows, and arrow loops of an old guard tower- from its bottom all the way to the top where a lid of finely carved oak rested, forming the likeness of the conical roofs which generally adorned such structures. A tiny rivulet of dwarven ale ran down the side of The Tower, its probing fingers tracing the very design as it descended to the large stein’s base.

          Thumbing the lever to the ornately carved lid, Beoric turned the great mug up, gulping down the rest of its dark, spicy contents. As the last drop of grätzer spilled into his mouth, the young dwarf lowered The Tower back to the bar and motioned to Ortuck for a refill. The old barkeep had known Beoric for nearly three years, and had never ceased to be amazed at how much the young dwarf could drink without even the slightest impairment to his senses, speech, or general demeanor, and so, was more than happy to oblige. Grundliche Grätzer was a favored specialty that Ortuck always managed to keep on tap, especially since The Oaken Tankard saw more than its share of stout folk between the clans of Norgorad-Kam, travelers from Grundliche Hohle, and the many other settlements in between. In a swift motion of one who has serviced the people for many a year, Ortuck swept up The Tower and was off to fill it with the prized Dwarven ale.

          Beoric handed the old barkeep a handful of shiny gems as he returned with The Tower, a small stream of the dark, frothy brew trickling down the graven sides to drip onto the floor. The jewels were more than enough to pay for the grätzer, his meal, and the refills of the great tankard for not only tonight, but for every night for the rest of the week; however, the fiery haired warrior didn’t care, for he had been to The Oaken Tankard enough over the last few years, that he and Ortuck had become like old friends. As they exchanged their wares, Beoric offered the barkeep a grim smile, then nodded thankfully and turned to survey the tavern.

          His stern gaze roved over the tavern, taking in the spectacle of events that were happening around him- from the bard upon the stage whose music soothed the crowd, to the wandering knight who had seemingly tamed the petite thief that had been slinking amid the crowd, pilfering whatever items she seemed to find within her reach, his gaze absorbed everything that was going on in The Oaken Tankard. For a moment Beoric’s eyes wandered over to the mighty barbarian seated along the wall, his wolf-faced hood now resting upon his shoulders. The dwarven warrior took a few gulps of his grätzer as he studied the big man. He was nearly as impressed with the Engalean’s resolve as he was the human ingenuity behind the crafting of The Tower. The Northman paid no heed to the events going on around him and he seemed distant, as if lost in a state of reflective thought. Beoric Helmgar could sense a vague state of perplexity in the warrior’s demeanor, something that spoke of loss and determination which fueled the simmering fires in the Northlander’s icy blue eyes. The dwarven warrior allowed his eyes to wander once more, surveying the common room until he met the gaze of an elven woodsman seated at a nearby table. The elf’s calm nature set him apart from his comrades, who seemed to be reveling in the abundance of food and drink. With a grave nod of acknowledgement, he regarded the elf with respect, despite the usual animosity that was rumored to be shared between the two entirely different races. The elf nodded in return, raising his tankard in an old dwarven salute, an act that surprised the stalwart dwarf for he seldom saw that greeting outside of the dwarven realms, and even less from any of the other races that called Ursal home. Returning the gesture in a likewise manner, Beoric turned to face the bar so as to not give away the cheerless, if amused smile that had crept onto his face.

          Beoric Helmgar of the Clan Helmgarad took in a healthy swig of the Dwarven grätzer, swirling it around in his mouth as he allowed the events unfolding around him to mull over themselves in his mind. With a side-long glance in either direction, he homed in on a conversation at a nearby table, where the folk were discussing the weather, certain concerns of the times to come, and the omens that that seemed to be heralding in something that no one could quite put a finger on. Beoric felt it too- there was something in the air tonight… he wasn’t sure what; he could just sense it was there.

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