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<blockquote data-quote="GodOfCheese" data-source="post: 4721790" data-attributes="member: 19170"><p><strong>Finnord's Bar</strong></p><p></p><p>Legend has it that the god Moradin forged the first dwarves from steel beaten from the very blood of the earth in the elder times, when all was fire. And when the sons of Moradin reached the skin of the world, sometime between then and the terrible War of the Gods, they discovered beer. They have been drunk ever since.</p><p></p><p>Finnord’s Bar was then a shrine to this well-known Dwarvish pastime. The ceiling was low by human standards, and built of large, unfinished timbers. Ruddy sunlight invaded through slits in the walls where massive stone pillars joined heavy logs. Smoke hung thick in the air, creating rusty, marbled veins where the sunset rays cut through. </p><p></p><p>The guttural syllables of enthusiastic Dwarven competed with pipe-smoke and beer-foam for dominance of the air. The Bar’s atmosphere was alive with the scents of tobacco, woodsmoke, sweat and beer hops. </p><p></p><p>Squat, broad-chinned women with foamy pitchers navigated the tight-quarters between the dozen or so sturdy-looking tables. Most were occupied; many to capacity, with bearded patrons of massive build. These dwarves were for the most part engaged in song. </p><p></p><p>Dorin squinted, listening to the singing. He couldn’t bring himself to call it <em>music</em> per se, but the often brutal-sounding Dwarvish language does lend itself well to some situations. “It sounds like they’re all singing the same song,” he said. “…but I don’t understand the words.”</p><p></p><p>Wik grinned, dominating her own little knee-height area of the room with appreciation. “They’re singing about how much they love to work. That…” she listened for a moment, “…that good work done makes you long for more.” </p><p></p><p>A few feet away, one of the singers clapped another heavily on the back. The recipient laughed throatily. They slammed their mugs together, and foam lashed out, spraying each in the face. The laughter continued, as did the song.</p><p></p><p>“This doesn’t sound like the song of people who are angry that the mill’s closed,” Dorin observed.</p><p></p><p>“No,” said Jo, who seemed unaffected by the laughter surrounding them. “Not everyone works for the J’Tegh mill, though.” She pronounced the mill’s name with obvious ease, but without stressing it.</p><p></p><p>Dorin seemed to accept this. “So this Jit-Teck--”</p><p></p><p>“Jih… Tegh,” Jo corrected sharply and slowly. She stressed the trailing sound of the dominant last syllable and made it a few more times. It sounded like she was trying to produce phlegm. “Don’t mispronounce a clan’s name,” she added. She did not elaborate, but a look of wariness crossed her face briefly.</p><p></p><p>The message was not lost on Dorin. “So this J’Tegh clan. They run the mill, right? Are any of them here?”</p><p></p><p>Jo looked around. From her vantage point, the hairy tops of many heads were visible. She shook her head after several moments. “I don’t know.”</p><p></p><p>“Don’t they wear colors or something?” Dorin asked, but then quickly answered himself: “I was told the kilts symbolized clan membership.” He turned away from them and scanned the room. “Bah, it’s too dark and smoky in here… I can’t make out any of the colors!”</p><p></p><p>“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” said Wik. “Dwarves can see in the dark. But it’s not like how we see.” She searched for words for a moment but then gave up. “Something about the pattern of the kilt. They see the <em>shape</em> of the patterns, not… not what it looks like to us.” She shrugged.</p><p></p><p>Dorin nodded sagely to Wik, who just shrugged again. <em>Does he know what I’m talking about, she thought, or is he just humoring me? Humans often think that because we’re smaller, we must be children. Others think we’re odd little geniuses. What does this one think?</em></p><p></p><p>“I don’t think we’re going to find one of them without getting a dwarf’s eye view,” said Dorin, his lips tight. “You speak their language, right Wik? Let’s ask them…”</p><p></p><p>Jo interrupted again. “I wouldn’t.” At Dorin’s insistent stare, she elaborated: “The other clans are afraid of being tainted by the haunting.”</p><p></p><p>“Superstitious nonsense,” said Dorin under his breath. “Do you know any of the clan members?”</p><p></p><p>She nodded, her straw-like hair bouncing into her eyes. As she drew the locks away from her face, she added, “But not enough that I could find them without better lighting.</p><p></p><p>“So we wait outside for them to come out,” prompted Wik.</p><p></p><p>“They’re not coming out sober,” replied Jo. </p><p></p><p>“So?” asked Dorin. “They should have plenty to say, then.”</p><p></p><p>“They anger easily when drunk,” added Jo.</p><p></p><p>Wik chuckled. “That’s the truth. And I have quite enough experience with angry, drunken dwarves. Let’s think of something else.”</p><p></p><p>Dorin scowled. </p><p></p><p>Jo abruptly strode into the crowd, her head turning left and right purposefully.</p><p></p><p>Dorin’s eyebrows knitted, which had a bizarre effect on his face. “Jo, what are you doing?”</p><p></p><p>Wik exchanged a glance with him and spoke up. “Hey, Dwarves are pretty insular. Perhaps I should…”</p><p></p><p>“Jo!” came a guttural voice, unseen. “Drink with us, you comely ogre!”</p><p></p><p>A chorus of laughter followed and several cries of “Yes! Drink!”</p><p></p><p>Dorin looked to Wik. She shrugged. “That was… unexpected,” he offered. “If Jo works for the establishment, wouldn’t they see her as a pawn of the Empire…?”</p><p></p><p>Wik looked out into the crowd, smiling. “I don’t know, but maybe they’re not as simple as you have them made out to be…”</p><p></p><p>Dorin scowled and joined her in dwarf-watching. “Nothing’s simple with a crowd.” </p><p></p><p>She looked at him. The dust on his face hid little: <em>I’ve nothing against dwarves, except that they’ve plenty against me.</em> Humans were as interesting as dwarves. Her smile didn’t fade as she turned back to the bar’s patrons.</p><p></p><p><em>There. Two tables away. His eyes whisk hurriedly away to contemplate his mug. But he doesn’t drink it.</em> “I think we’re being watched,” Dorin intoned, just loudly enough for Wik to hear him over the many voices.</p><p></p><p>She seemed to have an answer for this. Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was abrupt—a command. “Pick me up, Dorin. Carry me, so they can see me, and go to the bar.”</p><p></p><p>At Dorin’s hesitation, Wik fixed him with her gaze. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just put me on your shoulder.” He lifted her up. “Not like an infant,” she clarified a second later, her smile widening. “I assure you I’m quite mature.”</p><p></p><p>“Sorry,” he muttered at her wink.</p><p></p><p>The crowd didn’t exactly part for them. The patrons did, however, shift their chairs out of the way to accommodate Dorin as he carried Wik to the bar. The stares of the dark eyes around them turned to nods of understanding. However, Dorin still perceived the weight of suspicious judgment upon them. Or, more likely, him.</p><p></p><p>---</p><p></p><p>Many of the patrons clapped Jo on the back as she approached the bar. The dwarf behind the counter said something neither Dorin nor Wik could quite make out before either could arrive. When they did, there was a small mug waiting. Jo was already drinking.</p><p></p><p>Wik abruptly took and downed the beer. Dorin shot her an odd look. “It was intended for me. It’s spice-beer.” </p><p></p><p>Dorin’s eyes went back to Jo, then back to the barman, who was not looking at him. “They don’t know her, of course… but they know you?” His eyes returned to Wik, full of questions. <em>I know you came from the Waste, the surface above the Landhold. Is it you they know, or is it your people?</em></p><p></p><p>She grinned and shrugged, saying nothing. Her cheeks acquiring a rosy, good-natured hue. Dorin’s expression was easy to read: <em>Noted for future reference.</em> </p><p></p><p>“Jo, they obviously know you. Who can we talk to about this… haunting?” his voice had a strong undertow of resignation.</p><p></p><p>The woman reached out and punched the bartender obnoxiously in the shoulder as he passed, a feat only someone of her height could possibly have accomplished. He turned to face her, his graying eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Then he slapped her lightly on the shoulder in return; a compromise between the competing social expectations of hitting her and not touching a woman.</p><p></p><p>Jo’s voice was obnoxiously loud when she addressed the bartender. “Finnord!” She grinned toothily, to all appearances having transitioned from Town Guard to Local Drunk with a single mug.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="GodOfCheese, post: 4721790, member: 19170"] [b]Finnord's Bar[/b] Legend has it that the god Moradin forged the first dwarves from steel beaten from the very blood of the earth in the elder times, when all was fire. And when the sons of Moradin reached the skin of the world, sometime between then and the terrible War of the Gods, they discovered beer. They have been drunk ever since. Finnord’s Bar was then a shrine to this well-known Dwarvish pastime. The ceiling was low by human standards, and built of large, unfinished timbers. Ruddy sunlight invaded through slits in the walls where massive stone pillars joined heavy logs. Smoke hung thick in the air, creating rusty, marbled veins where the sunset rays cut through. The guttural syllables of enthusiastic Dwarven competed with pipe-smoke and beer-foam for dominance of the air. The Bar’s atmosphere was alive with the scents of tobacco, woodsmoke, sweat and beer hops. Squat, broad-chinned women with foamy pitchers navigated the tight-quarters between the dozen or so sturdy-looking tables. Most were occupied; many to capacity, with bearded patrons of massive build. These dwarves were for the most part engaged in song. Dorin squinted, listening to the singing. He couldn’t bring himself to call it [I]music[/I] per se, but the often brutal-sounding Dwarvish language does lend itself well to some situations. “It sounds like they’re all singing the same song,” he said. “…but I don’t understand the words.” Wik grinned, dominating her own little knee-height area of the room with appreciation. “They’re singing about how much they love to work. That…” she listened for a moment, “…that good work done makes you long for more.” A few feet away, one of the singers clapped another heavily on the back. The recipient laughed throatily. They slammed their mugs together, and foam lashed out, spraying each in the face. The laughter continued, as did the song. “This doesn’t sound like the song of people who are angry that the mill’s closed,” Dorin observed. “No,” said Jo, who seemed unaffected by the laughter surrounding them. “Not everyone works for the J’Tegh mill, though.” She pronounced the mill’s name with obvious ease, but without stressing it. Dorin seemed to accept this. “So this Jit-Teck--” “Jih… Tegh,” Jo corrected sharply and slowly. She stressed the trailing sound of the dominant last syllable and made it a few more times. It sounded like she was trying to produce phlegm. “Don’t mispronounce a clan’s name,” she added. She did not elaborate, but a look of wariness crossed her face briefly. The message was not lost on Dorin. “So this J’Tegh clan. They run the mill, right? Are any of them here?” Jo looked around. From her vantage point, the hairy tops of many heads were visible. She shook her head after several moments. “I don’t know.” “Don’t they wear colors or something?” Dorin asked, but then quickly answered himself: “I was told the kilts symbolized clan membership.” He turned away from them and scanned the room. “Bah, it’s too dark and smoky in here… I can’t make out any of the colors!” “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” said Wik. “Dwarves can see in the dark. But it’s not like how we see.” She searched for words for a moment but then gave up. “Something about the pattern of the kilt. They see the [I]shape[/I] of the patterns, not… not what it looks like to us.” She shrugged. Dorin nodded sagely to Wik, who just shrugged again. [I]Does he know what I’m talking about, she thought, or is he just humoring me? Humans often think that because we’re smaller, we must be children. Others think we’re odd little geniuses. What does this one think?[/I] “I don’t think we’re going to find one of them without getting a dwarf’s eye view,” said Dorin, his lips tight. “You speak their language, right Wik? Let’s ask them…” Jo interrupted again. “I wouldn’t.” At Dorin’s insistent stare, she elaborated: “The other clans are afraid of being tainted by the haunting.” “Superstitious nonsense,” said Dorin under his breath. “Do you know any of the clan members?” She nodded, her straw-like hair bouncing into her eyes. As she drew the locks away from her face, she added, “But not enough that I could find them without better lighting. “So we wait outside for them to come out,” prompted Wik. “They’re not coming out sober,” replied Jo. “So?” asked Dorin. “They should have plenty to say, then.” “They anger easily when drunk,” added Jo. Wik chuckled. “That’s the truth. And I have quite enough experience with angry, drunken dwarves. Let’s think of something else.” Dorin scowled. Jo abruptly strode into the crowd, her head turning left and right purposefully. Dorin’s eyebrows knitted, which had a bizarre effect on his face. “Jo, what are you doing?” Wik exchanged a glance with him and spoke up. “Hey, Dwarves are pretty insular. Perhaps I should…” “Jo!” came a guttural voice, unseen. “Drink with us, you comely ogre!” A chorus of laughter followed and several cries of “Yes! Drink!” Dorin looked to Wik. She shrugged. “That was… unexpected,” he offered. “If Jo works for the establishment, wouldn’t they see her as a pawn of the Empire…?” Wik looked out into the crowd, smiling. “I don’t know, but maybe they’re not as simple as you have them made out to be…” Dorin scowled and joined her in dwarf-watching. “Nothing’s simple with a crowd.” She looked at him. The dust on his face hid little: [I]I’ve nothing against dwarves, except that they’ve plenty against me.[/I] Humans were as interesting as dwarves. Her smile didn’t fade as she turned back to the bar’s patrons. [I]There. Two tables away. His eyes whisk hurriedly away to contemplate his mug. But he doesn’t drink it.[/I] “I think we’re being watched,” Dorin intoned, just loudly enough for Wik to hear him over the many voices. She seemed to have an answer for this. Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was abrupt—a command. “Pick me up, Dorin. Carry me, so they can see me, and go to the bar.” At Dorin’s hesitation, Wik fixed him with her gaze. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just put me on your shoulder.” He lifted her up. “Not like an infant,” she clarified a second later, her smile widening. “I assure you I’m quite mature.” “Sorry,” he muttered at her wink. The crowd didn’t exactly part for them. The patrons did, however, shift their chairs out of the way to accommodate Dorin as he carried Wik to the bar. The stares of the dark eyes around them turned to nods of understanding. However, Dorin still perceived the weight of suspicious judgment upon them. Or, more likely, him. --- Many of the patrons clapped Jo on the back as she approached the bar. The dwarf behind the counter said something neither Dorin nor Wik could quite make out before either could arrive. When they did, there was a small mug waiting. Jo was already drinking. Wik abruptly took and downed the beer. Dorin shot her an odd look. “It was intended for me. It’s spice-beer.” Dorin’s eyes went back to Jo, then back to the barman, who was not looking at him. “They don’t know her, of course… but they know you?” His eyes returned to Wik, full of questions. [I]I know you came from the Waste, the surface above the Landhold. Is it you they know, or is it your people?[/I] She grinned and shrugged, saying nothing. Her cheeks acquiring a rosy, good-natured hue. Dorin’s expression was easy to read: [I]Noted for future reference.[/I] “Jo, they obviously know you. Who can we talk to about this… haunting?” his voice had a strong undertow of resignation. The woman reached out and punched the bartender obnoxiously in the shoulder as he passed, a feat only someone of her height could possibly have accomplished. He turned to face her, his graying eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Then he slapped her lightly on the shoulder in return; a compromise between the competing social expectations of hitting her and not touching a woman. Jo’s voice was obnoxiously loud when she addressed the bartender. “Finnord!” She grinned toothily, to all appearances having transitioned from Town Guard to Local Drunk with a single mug. [/QUOTE]
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