#17: Misbehavin’ dwarves

“Dwarf overboard!“

“Someone, find a life preserver or anything that will float! Get the rope! Which one of you dwarves knows CPR?!”

As I frantically scramble, Alath, the soldier in the water, smiles back.

“Eh boss, what’s the worry?” she cheerfully queries.

What the what!

“I thought you were drowning, Alath!”

“Drowning? No, no, boss. This isn’t much more than a little brook. Barely comes up to my waist.”

“Then… what…?”

“Just getting a drink of water.”

“Water? Water? Why are you drinking water?!“

“Oh, I just felt like it.”

“But you dwarves need booze to live. Why didn’t you just drink the booze back in the fortress?”

“I wanted to try something new.”

“But you love wine! I know this because I asked you all when you arrived, and took very careful notes! And we have lots of wine left. Go, drink it, and have happy thoughts!”

“Ick. No. I like dwarven wine. What you have is prickle berry wine and strawberry wine. And I’ve been drinking that swill for months now. Get me some dwarven wine or it’s water for me.”

“But you’ll get sick and die! Also, this brook is like a multiday journey from the fortress! I can’t have you doing this!”

“Too bad! Just try and stop me.”

!!

Oof.

Dwarves.

…

Referring to my well-worn handy field manual the elders provided, I see that dwarven wine is made with plump helmets.

“Steenky!”

“Uh yup?”

“You’re the head farmer, brewer, and cook. Make some dwarven wine!”

“Oop, well sorry, see, when I’m at the Still, the booze, it talks to me, and I must listen and make whatever booze I get a vision of.”

“But we really need dwarven wine.”

“Well you better hope the booze spirits agree, then. But even if they did, there’s nothing I could do about it right now.”

“What sort of short person treachery is this! Why not?”

“There ain’t no plump helmets to brew with.”

“Nonsense, I saw a huge harvest just last month. You’re the damn head farmer, you should know that better than I.”

“Indeed.”

“So where did the plump helmets go? Did those humans steal them? Did a goblin mistake a grotesque mushroom for one of your worthless children?”

“I cooked them, like you told me to, boss.”

“I never told you to use all of them. You were supposed to use meat and tallow!”

“Nope, I’m pretty sure you told me to make this. Or the food spirits commanded me to. Someone did!“

“Noooooooooo! Plump helmet stew mixing plump helmets with plump helmets! You used up at least 8 plump helmets to make that! And your stew was so retched and miserable that it could even be stacked. Who makes that?!”

“Ayup, there’s yer problem.”

“Oh, get out of my face.”

So now I will have to wait until the end of Autumn (still late Summer), to get plump helmets and make dwarven wine. Lets hope that Alath can survive that long (and I can tolerate the wasted walks way out to the brook), or someone brews some new and exciting booze out of the new cave wheat (dwarven beer) or pig tail (dwarven ale) harvests.

Now I’m an angry mood. Let’s put it to good use.

…

“Vabok!“

“Vabok, let’s talk about that little incident last week.”

“Yes, boss, I’m still recovering.”

“You. Idiot. … You’re recovering from your own idiocy?”

“Nope, the dehydration, the hunger, the sore back.”

“And you don’t think you’re to blame for any of that?”

“Nay, boss. I just do what you tell me and hope that there’ll be food, drink, and beds in the fortress when I need them.”

“Well I think you’re a lot responsible. I asked my masons to build some extra wall extensions on top of the farm wall. To protect against archers being able to fire on the farms from higher up the hill.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you went up and built a piece of wall that blocked off access to the hill.”

“Yup, that was the first piece that needed building.”

“No! No! It was not special! Any other piece first would have done! *sigh* But, continuing with the story, you then went to build the next piece of wall, and you, of course, built the piece of wall that would block access to the stairs. So where did that leave you?”

“Stuck, boss, you got me stuck.”

“How is any of this my fault you stupid, stupid, little dwarf!! You know what I had to do? I had to have you tear down the wall you just built, so that your sorry little dwarf ass could finally get down.”

“I’m down now.”

Grr. “You know what’s the worst part? You didn’t even ask for help. You would have died up there if I wasn’t so damn attentive. Just how many days up there were you without food, drink, or a bed?”

“A lot, boss. You got me stuck a lot.”

“Ok, that’s it. I wasn’t in a nicknaming mood, but now you’ve done it, Dingus.”

…

Apparently, I “prefer to consume rageahol”.

…

“You there, in the armor, what’s your name, soldier?”

“Mistem, m’lord.”

“And when I asked you to do target practice with Alath, you did not.”

“Nay, m’lord.”

“And why not? Alath had no problem with it.”

“I had nothing to shoot with.”

“Wrong! I made Santa make like a hundred new wooden bolts just for your target practice.”

“I guess I couldn’t find them.”

“They were right there, on the floor of the workshop.”

“I dunno.”

“You had a crossbow, you were able to find one of those.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

“But not bolts. So you just stood there in the dining hall. Doing nothing. And more nothing. So I told you to switch to another weapon, and you did so, dropping your crossbow. I did this so that I could then tell you to switch back to crossbows and perhaps regain some common sense.”

“Nay, m’lord. As an off-duty dwarf with an axe, I only have one job.”

“Yes, I saw. Sparring. With Alath. Who had a crossbow.”

“But she can use it like a hammer,” he defended.

“But that’s not what happened. You sliced her with your axe. And she shot you with her crossbow. I saw the wound. Blood was drawn. I’m lucky neither of you got permanently injured, or worse, before commanding you both to drop your weapons.”

He just gives me a gruff stare back.

“So there, I showed you where the bolts are. I’m now telling you to switch to using crossbows.”

“Okay.” He runs around a bit and then sits down in the dining hall.

“I see you found a crossbow. But didn’t grab any bolts. You did grab a quiver, though, but it’s empty.”

All I get is a blank stare back.

“Fine. Axedwarf. If this was your way of saying you didn’t want to be a sniper, that was a horrible way of doing it.”

…

Misery loves company. And upon looking outside, I see the human merchants in an odd predicament.

I walk up to them, silent.

“Howdy, partner. We… ah… seem to be in a bit of a jam.”

“Yeah, looks like you’re stuck. You’ve been there for a month or two.”

“Golly gee, I reckon you’re right.”

“I mean, even your horse is, like, lodged into that wall?”

“Son of a gun, it looks like he is!”

“Let me guess, this is all my fault. My dwarves built something or dug something, that somehow… shunted you and your wagon up two levels and into a wall?”

“It was a one-in-a-million shot. One-in-a-million.“

“Whatever. I’ll let the dwarves know to try and dig behind you there, but otherwise you’re on your own.”

“Much appreciated, partner.”

“Sure. Right. And if you die up there, we’re totally claiming all your loot and selling it to the next stupid caravan.”

“Well that’s down-right unfriendly, and no way to be treatin’ a guest.”

“Well I’m in no mood for your stupid human accent.”

I swear, if but one entity in these entire lands achieved even Proficient rank in Common Sense, they’d be able to conquer it all.