Beers and Beards

The two weeks rushed by in a blur. The city rose in a fresh uproar with the return of Lady Barnes. She accused the Patriarch of Clan Blackbeard, the Duke of the North, as the culprit in her poisoning, and things got really noisy for a while. We were forced to batten down our hatches for a second time as angry dwarves took to the streets protesting the injustices oft enacted upon them by the high nobility. There were demands that Duke Blackbeard be given the same punishment as any other dwarf under the Ordinances while protests rose over the mistreatment of those living in Blackbeard held lands.

And right in the thick of it were Schist and Tourmaline. The two of them hit it off pretty well, and they were a powerful tag team. Schist had most of the local populace on his side, and he’d also co-opted Harmsson’s people while Tourmaline had surprising sway amongst the young nobility who didn’t have sticks up their asses.

Between the two of them, with Lady Barnes pushing from the top. The King and Council slowly began to bend. Changes were small at first, like allowing gnomes to hold positions in City Hall, but the snowball had begun rolling.

Not that we at the Thirsty Goat were really paying attention; we had too much to do.

Which brought us to beer testing day. And a surprise for me from Bran.

“Bran.” I choked, staring at the bowl in front of me with tears in my eyes. “Tell me this is what I think it is.”

“Aye, it’s my entry for the contest.” Bran said smugly. “Fried erdroots with beer gravy, ground sausages, and cheese curds. Yer pootangy thingy, or as I like to call it, Curdly Fries!”

I eyed him warily. “That’s it? Not ‘Bran’s Sloppy Weiner”?

Bran laughed, his belly heaving. “What would give you an idea like that!”

“No reason.” I took a bite from the plate of poutine and closed my eyes in rapturous bliss. “Mmmm!!! It’s perfect!”

“Course it is. It’s my entry fer the contest. I got a bunch of different versions, but I think I can argue they’re all one dish.”

“So… why the wieners? I recommended corned beef, or slices of goat by the way.”

“Found the wieners were tha most popular with that unending belly you lot call an inn.”

“Isn’t it marvelous.” Annie cooed. “We’re making so much money, it’s like all those fines are a thing of the past.” She leaned against Balin and the two shared a peck on the cheek.

I chowed down on the poutine Bran had placed before me with abandon. Poutine was, of course, one of my favourite meals of all time. As a Canadian, I was legally required to be obsessed with two dishes. Flapjacks with Canadian bacon and maple syrup, and Poutine.

The variety Bran had made used the appropriate squeaky cheese curds, which were thumb sized globs of white cheddar cheese. Some restaurants committed sacrilege by making Poutine using shredded cheddar, and were then burned to the ground by necessity. The curds were placed cold on a bed of steaming blanched fries, then covered liberally in hot gravy and some variety of meat, usually Montreal corned beef. I was personally a fan of pulled pork poutine, which used shredded barbecue pork instead.

Bran’s used a spiced lamb sausage with a peppered beer gravy that was simply divine. The cheese had melted to form a scrumptious gooey mess that clung to the fries as I lifted them to my mouth. I took another chewy bite and moaned with pleasure.

“Are you going to ask those fries on a date before going all the way, Pete?” Aqua asked sardonically.

“Shaddup. I’ve been waiting for this for years.” I muttered around a full mouth.

“I think I’m going to need therapy after watching you eat.”

Annie clapped her hands. “Well, let’s get things over with. Poor Whistlemop refuses to come out of his room until it’s done.”

The assembled grumble snickered. Unfortunately, we weren’t joined by any of our usual hangers on today, with everyone so busy busy busy.

*Baaah!!* [Translated from Primma Donna Goat] “I agree!”

I eyed Penelope and guarded my fries. “I’m still not sure how she got down in the sewer with me. I really, really, want to ask Barck if she’s another Chosen or something. And has anyone else noticed that she keeps vanishing and then turning up in the kitchen?”

There was a *sching* sound as Bran sharpened one of his knives. “Yes.”

“We can have a [Tamer] look into things when everything’s a little tamer.” Annie filled the awkward silence that followed, then blushed. “Gods, you’re rubbing off on me, Pete.”

I snickered. “Not while Balin’s around! Nyuck!”

“Shaddup, Pete!” Balin growled.

We had a lot of different ratios of hops to test, so Richter got to work pouring multiple bowls for Penelope. The greedy goat followed him around the brewroom, butting at his ankles. When Richter had all the bowls filled he lay them on the ground and we watched with rising excitement as Penelope went to drink.

And refused the first bowl.

The grumble groaned. Penelope bucked her head, stamped her foot, bleated angrily and moved to the next bowl.

And refused it too.

*Maaaaahhh!!* [Translated from Primma Donna Goat] “What is this garbage you lay before me!?”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Now we were nervous. We’d never had Penelope refuse an entire batch before, so there was still hope!

Penelope continued down the line discarding bowl after bowl. When she got to the last one in the line she sniffed it, turned to leave, then bent back to lap at it curiously. Then, with a happy bleat, she dug in.

“Oh thank all the Gods and all their various bits.” Aqua breathed.

“I was really worried there.” I admitted.

“But she is drinking and ‘dat’s what matters.” Richter agreed.

We watched her guzzle happily until she finished the last of the bowl, burped, then waltzed out of the brewroom without so much as a backwards glance.

“Where’s she going?” Johnsson asked.

“Excuse me.” Bran said darkly, storming out the door after her.

Annie shook her head. “That goat is going to get herself in trouble one of these days.”

“Eh, she saved my life. I can give Bran a Penelope budget.” I shrugged. “At least we have one working ratio.”

Richter poured a round for everyone and I led a toast to King and country.

I swished my first sip around in my mouth for a while. I put it at an IBU 50 plus from all the hops, with a slightly dry mouthfeel. It was very much an IPA, with a definite kick from the bitter aftertaste. It finally lacked the mealy dusty feeling that erdroot beer left in my mouth, and the alcohol content was high enough to be noticeable without being as high as the doppelbock. I’d need to check it later.

It tasted like home.

“Ooooh, I think the gnomes will love this.” Aqua muttered.

“I don’t like it.” Johnsson huffed.

“We’d guessed that was going to be a problem.” Annie said, jotting down everyone’s thoughts and complaints on the board.

We discussed our thoughts on the beer for a while until Bando suddenly interrupted us by popping his head into the room. “Pete. Someone to see you. And Bran’s chasing Penelope around the bar with a cleaver.”

“I’ll deal with it.” Annie sighed.

I followed Bando out to the pub and to a back table. A blonde haired dwarf was sitting there, looking pensive. He had a large walrus moustache and the barest hint of a goatee. I didn’t recognize him, but he still looked oddly familiar.

He saw me approach and gave a sad smile. “‘Allo there lad. You’re looking well, eh?”

It was the Eastern accent that did it. My stomach dropped out and my face froze.

“Sam,” I said, my mouth tight. “Or should I call you father.”

—

We sat drinking in silence for a while, a little knot of pent-up emotions in a very busy tavern. Sam had chosen a Liquid Gold, and I was drinking from my special reserve of Dragonator.

“I came ta tell you that me an Drum are leavin’ town. It’s a bit too hot here fer us right now, and it looks like things are movin’ even without us. We accomplished what we wanted. It may be a while before you see us again,” Sam eventually muttered.

I frowned. “Okay. Bye?”

“You called me pa.” Sam scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “When did ya remember?”

“It came to my attention a couple days ago. When the Guard came looking for you. Called you dangerous. Are you dangerous, Sam? Should I call ’em?” I breathed smoke out onto the table menacingly, then coughed, which ruined the effect.

“I’d prefer if ya didn’t,” Sam sighed. “I shoulda guessed they’d come ta you.”

“And why would that be?” I said sweetly. “Was if because you and Drum were on Harmsson’s side at that little revolution? Did you know he tried to kill me there?”

Sam squirmed. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. But, we did have someone watchin’ Ambermine! He never would’ve gotten near you but ‘fer yer little surprise. Drum’s still spoutin’ mad at Harmsson over the whole thing.”

“Uh-huh.” I noncommitted. “Where is Drum, by the way?”

“Drum’s gettin’ everything ready. And aye, it’s true. I am yer pa. Though… I’m not sure that’s fully true.” His voice turned accusing. “I know yer not really me son.”

I managed to avoid gulping. “Go on.”

“Me and Pete were never close. Part of that was my fault. I was never a real good father. I was always away adventurerin’ with Drum until our party disbanded. After that, I never could stay still for long. Travelled around playin’ me pipes fer the odd gold – you know how bards are. His mum never cared, she loved that about me, but it was hard on Pete. He dropped out of school. Fell in with some bad crowds. He buried ’imself in drinkin’ and gamblin’, an’ left his ma with a load of debts. When I heard he was picked up and sent to a reform mine, it wasn’t unexpected. I’d been in and outta them meself over the years.”

He took a deep drink. “Grim knew me, and recognized me from yer file. He told me you’d lost yer memories, and thought I should come see ya, see if things changed over time. It can be dangerous, and downright unethical in that kinda situation ta just up and say, ‘Hey look, it’s yer Pa!’ so I just planted myself beside ya and made sure you were okay.”

Bando stopped by and offered a refill of our drinks from a jug.

Sam took a deep drag, emptying his mug. and motioned for Bando to refill it. When Bando had walked off, he continued. “I watched how ya made that Boomdust, how ya made new friends and companions. Yer drive and conviction. My son never had those. The most conviction he ever held was the one that put him in that mine. So I could tell, that was the body of my son, the blood of my blood, but the Spirit in it was different. My son was dead.”

I scratched my beard. “So why did you stay?”

“Ta kill ya,” Sam said, matter of factly. I felt a chill down my shoulder blades, and my hand inched for my war hammer. Sam waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t bother. I’m not plannin’ it anymore. I wanted ta see if you were some evil Spirit that’d taken him over with an Ability, or someone that’d stolen my son’s face and was pretendin’ to be him. But I’ve known ya long enough now ta know you were neither. Yer a good dwarf, Pete. And… I’m proud that yer my son.”

I gulped. “But you know… I’m not.”

Sam chuckled. “Ya won’t get away from me that easily, lad. You’ve got the blood of Sam Barrelbow in you, and that hasn’t changed. Souls come and go on Erd, and I’ve been watchin’ you for a while. I think yer somethin’ special, and I’m glad that my son was chosen fer whatever it is yer doin’. One day far in tha’ future, I think folks’ll still be talkin about the great Peter Roughtuff, son o’ Sam.”

“I see.” I choked. It was hard, as a father myself, to hear that. I wonder if Sammy on Earth would be remembered in the same way? Doubtful. We didn’t exactly think that way in Canada, but still. “Do you want to know? What this is all about?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah. Best I don’t know. Just keep doin’ what yer doin’, son. I’m proud of ya.”

With that, he stood, clasped me tight in a hug and walked out the door.

I stared after him in consternation. That had not been on my list of tasks for the day. I sat and just… drank for a while. I took the moment to look at my character sheet, and where, once upon a time, it had once said Peter Samson.

Status: Provided by the Firmament

Name: Peter Roughtuff

Age: 51

Conditions:

Race: Dwarf

Blessings: [Flesh to Stone], [Flash of Insight x 2], [Strength of All: Held], [Regeneration], [Map], [Refine Brew], [Lesser Crafter’s Eye], [Lesser Arcane Crafting]

Title: [Otherworldly Arcane Crafter]

Milestones: [Power Pick], [Basic Slash], [White Lie], [Mental Maths], [Big Money], [Thick Skin], [Friend: Gnomes], [Pete’s Miniature Remembrance], [Long Stride],[Sense Poison],[Spot Clean], [Unbending], [Rapid Aging], [Lucky Break], [Pete’s Lucky Brew]

Strength: 19.8

Vitality: 22

Agility: 14.2

Dexterity: 15.4

Wisdom: 15.4

Intelligence: 19.4

Perception: 18.4

Charisma: 21

And then, it was back to work. With a beer recipe chosen, I was going to be ground into the dust casting spells and Abilities for the next two weeks.

Hopefully—

Nope! I stood and went to work. No “hopefullys,” just do. To make my Ancestors proud.

For… Sam.