---[ POV: Brumdor ]---

"I swear by the ample bosom of the Mountain Mother and all of my ancestors! I am not lying!"

Brumdor had leaned against the counter, agitating his mug of ale in a defying manner under the nose of the innkeeper that gazed at him with an unconvinced look in his eyes.

"Right, right..." said the burly innkeeper as he walked aside to serve another customer.

"That's why you don't feed beer to a dwarf. They always boast about drinking you under the table five times over but once they get started, they don't know how to stop and always end up rambling about nonsensical things over and over again!"

Brumbor mumbled angrily and turned on his seat to face the man that had just spoken.

"Well... excuuuuse me, young man, but a child like you, without proper hairs on his balls or on his chin, should keep his mouth shut when the grown-ups are talking."

The face of the adolescent farmhand that had just spoken got red at the insult and he tried to answer the dwarf but, unable to come up with a better insult or something witty, he simply stuttered for a couple of seconds before sheepishly returning all of his attention to his own mug.

Brumdor got up on his stool with an agility no one would have expected from a dwarf of his girth imbibed with well over a dozen mugs of ales.

The innkeeper darted an irritated and warning look at him but kept his mouth shut as he knew Brumbor would completely ignore him anyway.

The inhabitant of the village that had gathered in the tavern on that fresh spring night had been listening to the fable of the dwarf merchant for some time now. Most of them were simply happy to break their monotonous routine with the incredible tales of the old dwarf but a couple of them were starting to get mad at him for stressing, over and over again, the fact that it was a true story. Dwarves were known to abhor lies and deceit so one of them exhibiting such comportment was unsettling for the other people around.

Brumdor gulped what was left of his drink before letting out a small burp and scanned his audience with impassioned eyes.

"That's right, good folks of Graffen! I saw it with my own two eyes; the Storm Warrior! The Black Knight on the Mountain! It was cold that night and a tempest had blown my tent away and transformed my camp into a wet and muddy hell. My stone beetle had fled earlier, scarred by a lightning strike. I was unable to sleep, soaked, cold to my bones, and completely terrified; you all know just how dangerous the old mountain roads are! If it's not the goblins or the wolves that get you, it's gonna be one of those damned death-singers. Well, there were none around me, right, but there sure enough was one singing somewhere up the mountain! Yeah... I heard its screams and song of death in the wind so I got a hold of my trustee spyglass and started to search for it. If it was too close, I would have to run for my life, abandoning my cargo. Shameful, really… But what did I see, up there on a far ledge of the mountain in the very front of me?! A man! A single man, clad in an armor of darkness and gleaming gold, battling alone against one of the death-singer! And not just any of them! No! It was Old White Scar himself!"

"Shut up!"

"Yeah, you're drunk old thing! Just go to sleep already!"
Someone threw a piece of bread in the old merchant's direction while laughing. Brumdor squinted while letting out a vexed scoff but quickly got his countenance back.

"Oh! But it's all true! You better believe me! He was like one of the fabled warriors of old. He wielded a mythical war hammer that could have been nothing else than the ages lost dwarven relic Throndungar; the Thunder Maker! As he fought the beast, his very blows brought down lightning and thunder and I wouldn't be surprised to learn he had summoned the storm himself. The fangs and claws of Old White Scar had no hold on him! Their battle fiercely raged for longer than any knights in all of the realms of men could have ever kept it up. Even the mightiest of dwarven thanes would not be able to match the endurance displayed! In the end, the knight in black got disarmed but it wasn't even a problem for him. He stood his ground and simply punched Old White Scar so hard that his neck imploded. After that, while flying above the ground, the warrior summoned his hammer back into his hand to deliver the coup de grace!"

"Fuck off!” exclaimed an old man seated in the corner of the tavern. ”Old White Scar has terrorized the mountains long before my great-great-grandpa was even born! There have been countless monster hunter parties and huge knightly expeditions dispatched to deal with him. None were able to do anything! Most of them never got back! And now you're trying to have me believe that a single man took care of it?! Alone?!"

"That's right, yes! Believe me, I am just as shocked as you all. I thought I was going insane for sure. I mean, we dwarves have tried to get rid of the beast on our own terms for longer than you might think, but neither the might of our war machines nor the axes of heavily armored throngs could vanquish the terror. I thought, for sure, we would just be plagued with him forever, but he is gone now!"

"You're lying!"

"A good dwarf never lie!"

Brumdor mustache bristled with indignation.

"You're drunk!"

"... Well, um... Yeah. Yeah, a bit."

"If you're telling the truth then where is your proof?"

"I don't have any!"

"Then get lost!"

Brumdor sat back on his stool, turning his back to the crowd that had grown rowdy. Soon enough, they all started to talk together about this incredible tale or changed the subject toward other matters. It wasn't long before the tavern regained its usual atmosphere.

Brumbor waved for the innkeeper to bring him another pint of ale while grumbling in his beard.

"There was a time when the word of a brave and honest dwarf was proof enough on its own. What happened? Oh, do I miss the days of yore... Everything was better back then. You didn't have to justify yourself to a flock of manlings. Oh. Oh..."

Dwarves could live for about 400 years and Brumdor was approaching his three hundred and fiftieth birthday. He could be considered old for a dwarf, which was great, because old is good. As he got lost in reminiscences of the past, a thought crossed his mind, that had courted him for some time now.

What if he got the proof for all those annoying unbelievers? What if he brought back proof of Old White Scar's demise to the kings of men and dwarves? Surely they would shower him in gold and praises! The fame and riches of Brumdor Goldenhoard could only profit from it.

And maybe, if he ventured up the mountain, he would get the chance to meet with the secretive and mythical warrior. Brumdor had a lot of questions for him, especially about his legendary hammer and armor.

Dwarves were known for the quality of their crafts and the potent magical runes they could adorn their equipment with, but never before had Brumdor seen artifacts of such power. Some human or elven spellcasters were able to cast magics as devastating as the hammer blows but it took them a lot of time and energy. If the hammer really was Throndungar, Brumdor would be made king if he brought it back.

Beyond dreams of gold and kingship, however, it was Brumdor dwarven nature and inquisitive mind that drove his decision the most. He was burning to know just what kind of magic and formula the warrior’s items had been crafted and imbued with. Is it runes? Enchantments? Some other form of long-forgotten magical lore?

As his ale got placed in front of him, Brumdor smiled and resolved to sell the rest of his cargo as fast as possible, profit be damned, to then mount an expedition in the mountain.

"You just wait and see, humans. I will be the one laughing!"

The old drunken dwarf was too busy happily cackling over his mug of ale to take notice of the two silhouettes draped in ample cloaks that emerged from one of the shadowy and smoke chocked alcoves in a far recess of the tavern. One was tall and broad, the other was a bit smaller and leaner than the average man. Both had gray hoods over their head, masking their feature from the inquiring eyes.

As if cued by the end of the dwarf rambling, they got up and left the tavern silently, disappearing into the night.