All the dwarves looked at me with complex expressions on their faces. The newcomer just shook his head. “Aye, that be sounding like Kram, Revered.”
The lid was levered open, and the armor and dwarf within inspected and verified.
The last brought pause to both captain and priest. “Egil!” the cleric Korgil breathed out. “Egil Volkanson of Clan Wodxen! Remains found in the hoard of the red dragon Conflagrus the Unequaled.” Unlike the others, the cover of his casket bore an indent, and a gleaming Warhammer lay within it. “’Return this hammer to hearth and home, that another bear it in honor. Mother, I died in fire, but I did not run.’”
Breaths hissed out all around. I gather the dwarves knew the quiet spirit with the brazen beard.
It was the captain who reached out, picked up the Hammer, and all watched as it lit up with soft silvery light in his hand. He held it high, and there was a deep sigh from all the watching dwarves as they obviously recognized it.
Slowly and reverently, the casket was opened, and I stepped politely away as suddenly a dozen dwarves were crowding around that casket this time.
The armor and shield were a fused mess, as was the skeleton itself. The faces of the dwarves twisted in anger and grief as they beheld the ruin made of one of their own, probably a former soldier who had served here with them.
The last casket was closed, and all the eyes turned on me. The captain emphatically returned the Hammer to the indentation on the casket for it, indicating that it should not be buried with the dead.
“Lady Edge,” the dwarf-captain began with wary respect, “you have done a great honor in returning our fallen to us. You have at the very least earned our gratitude in bringing back our own.” He paused significantly. “What is the fate of the red dragon that killed them?”
“Conflagrus the Unequaled was torn apart, then bled, butchered, chopped up for spell components and magical reagents, and some of its bones redistributed among the survivors of the other fallen. The brother of the young knight Paulinthos of Wahrsherz has inherited a spear of dragonbone. The sister of the mage Noiffus of Absoglor received her brother’s spellbook and a dragontooth dagger. The son of Canthus of Federyn City has a dragonbone bow waiting for him when he is older, and so forth and so on,” I answered calmly for them. “Of your fellow Rockborn, the one merely wished his Hammer returned to his kin, the other was a surly fool I would have left to the midden heap of the dragon were it not so easy to return him with his more honorable brethren, the one wished a proper brew to be lifted in his name…”
I swept out a flagon nearly as big as my head, plainly made from the shrunken skull of something large and reptilian, drawing gasps of envy and admiration from the watching dwarves, especially as I set it upon the casket of Orgmul, “and the last wished for the dragon to protect his brethren in its death, as it killed them in its life.”
I swept a shield coated in bright red dragonscales out of nowhere, and leaned it against the casket of the dwarf-cleric. Gasps of envy and admiration rose all around once again, while the faces of cleric and captain were completely speechless in surprise.
I turned my attention to the dwarf-cleric. “Revered Korgil, may I trust you to see these sons of the mountains home?” I asked formally.
He drew himself up promptly, and this time, he bowed his head sincerely in return. “Lady Edge, elf-maid, it would be my honor to be certain that these sons of Clangyr return to their families!” he swore fervently.
“Then my task here is done. Axes high, Rockborn!”
Hands and axes clapped automatically to breastplates at the traditional farewell in their own language, which I’d been speaking right along fluently.
“Wait, Lady Edge!” Revered Korgil spoke up quickly, holding out his hand. “Please, will you at least enjoy the hospitality of the sons of the mountains before you leave?”
This had now become a point of honor. Not only had I brought their own home to them, I had claimed none of their belongings, and even brought with me trophies from the dragon that had slain them! To simply shoo me away or even watch me leave without some gesture on their part would smack of so much dishonor and ingratitude they might go a bit crazy owing an honor-debt to an elf!
“I ask nothing of the Rockborn, Revered, and I did not come here expecting reward,” I replied calmly, pausing as I was about to Teleport away.
He took a deep breath. “Please, young lady. We will not hear of any speaking ill of the lack of gratitude of the Rockborn.”
“Very well,” I sighed. More social stuff to be goth about, but at least I was good about being distant and serious, and very un-elvish about such things.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
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It was less a celebration than a solemn wake for the dead, but they took it seriously. Their main problem was that they really didn’t know how to cook for elves.
Elven senses were, well, more sensitive and less resilient in many ways than being human. Granted, Aelryinth had a lot of magical enhancement to his senses, and his Perception Ranks were so high he basically had magically-charged senses.
But compared to rote humans, I had a lot more sensitivity to scents and tastes than they did, which meant even subtle alterations in what might otherwise seem bland food could actually have a major effect. It was why the elves down below didn’t get sick of curina, even after years eating it. Even subtle alterations in consistency, taste, and texture were welcome alterations that could be appreciated.
A lot of human food was rather overpowering to me now, and especially drinks. It meant I was a wine snob, because I had to be. What humans called a great wine was often a flavor-bomb of too much sugar, cutting tartness, and a melange of discordant flavors that I basically had to ignore and swallow with a straight face.
Finding all that out when I sampled all the wines in the Thisbean Inn had been an enlightening experience, prepping me for interacting with human society without spitting back the alcoholic sugar bomb grape juice they foisted on me.
Dwarves, of course, went with the beers and ales and meads instead.
I could not, of course, turn down the foods and drinks and stuff, although I could repeatedly stress to cut down the portion sizes, as I was an elf and they should not waste the food. The chiding was generally enough that I was basically given children’s portions, and didn’t have to worry about pouring multiple flagons down my throat, which would have made me gag.
Instead, I put out four shot glasses when it came time for the drinking, and instead bid them to fill each glass from a different tap.
This got the dwarves interested, as obviously this was a tasting contest, and they took their booze seriously…
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“This is about terms of hospitality,” I informed the dwarves as I looked around seriously. “The power of a good host is in how they appropriately treat those who come before them, is it not?” The old, gray-bearded proprietor of the ale-hall we were in led the rest of the dwarves around me in nodding as I basically held court, a flower of scarlet and black in the middle of grays and browns and metal. “If you know the preferences of your guests, and they are not despicable, than a good host plays to their guests.
“So, you know humans can keep up with you on food, but not on booze. So, you can water the ale down so they can keep pace, unless they are true gluttons for punishment.
“If you try that with elves, however, everyone just gets offended, and do you know why?” I looked around patiently at the dwarves, and before they spoke up, I added, “Any dwarven adventurer knows that elves can drink a surprising amount of stuff without going under. Elven festivals get VERY celebratory, after all. So it’s not being weak and unable to handle it.”
“Ye don’t like the taste of dwarven spirits!” the graybeard in charge of the place spoke up wisely. “Not had many elves here, but the face they make, even when they try to hide it, be hard to conceal, lass!” There were grunts around at that.
I held up a finger. “We don’t like dwarven spirits the way they are served to us,” I corrected him mildly, and swept my hand at the four shot glasses before me. “This is how you serve dwarven spirits to an elf.”
“’Tis barely a sip!” a soldier behind everyone spoke up, and everyone chuckled.
I just held up a finger again, and the laughter quieted as they all watched me. “Remember, it’s not because we can’t handle the drink. It’s because the deluge of flavors is like jamming a hose into our mouths, and we lose all the flavor and appreciation for what we are drinking, and it turns into just this putrid overpowering mess we have to swallow with game faces.” I picked up the first shot as they chortled. “You remember what you filled each of these with, Elder?”
“I do indeed, lass,” he nodded shrewdly.
I picked up the first shot and tossed it back. I closed my eyes and didn’t swallow, allowing the flavors to spread along my tongue.
“Six years old,” I said at last. “Maple barrel, charred over a coal fire. The hops were hill grown, not from a forest or prairie. The yeast was from low barley and cut with a trace of rye, and the maker added a dash of salt, parsley, redcap mushrooms, and ground gleedy spores. Alcohol concentration is about fifteen percent.”
The dwarves all around blinked in surprise, impressed. “Ye can taste all that, lass?” the dwarf-priest Korgil asked, astonished.
“Yes. Any elf could taste the same, although they might not be able to describe WHAT they are tasting. However, if they drink more than a sip, or repeatedly, or swill it like it was water, it all runs together and just tastes like piss over rocks.”
I picked up the next honey-colored shot as the dwarves glanced at one another. “Giant bee honey. Holly vines and bluecups, I think. You can tell the flowers honey is made from by the hue.”
One by one, I went through the shots, calling out age, what they were seasoned in, additions and components, even the dry year one set came from, and the alcohol content.
When I was finished, my audience of dwarven ale-lovers was suitably impressed. I fixed an eye on the old dwarf. “Would you like to taste dwarven spirits as elves do, hallmaster?” I asked him politely.
He blinked at me, and stroked his beard in thought as bushy eyebrows went up all around. “That… would be interesting?” he finally murmured. “Nigle! Ammaster’s Fifth, a flagon!” he called out, and the bartender had a tankard on the way to him practically before he finished.
I held up a crystal shot glass, magic tinkled around it to clean it, and I somberly held it out for him, glowing softly. “A mouthful. Drink slowly.”
He eyed me, but his callused fingers took the limned shot glass, dipped it right into the foaming head of the tankard, and came up dripping. To the hoots of the dwarves, he lifted it up, flagrantly extending his little pinky, and put it to his lips.
The light winked out as he sipped, and his eyes popped wide open in shock. His startled expression didn’t change as he lowered his hand, staring up at the ceiling in wonder as he sampled a brew he’d no doubt tasted dozens of times.