"You can travel the whole wide world
And find beer of every kind
But be assured of one thing true
It's hoppier in the homeland brew,
But be assured of one thing true
It's hoppier in the homeland brew.
You can drink fine elven ale,
The kind they sip on thrones so high,
But the best ale for brave souls hale
Is in the Green Dragon by and by!"
"YES! Pour me more beer!" Standing with one foot on the bench, I raised my empty mug overhead. The remnants of foam dripped down my beard amid the rowdy, good-natured laughter of the gathered crowd, but I was ready to keep going! "Right now this dwarf's gonna show you scrawny humans how to really unwind!"
Slamming the mug down on the table with all my might, I snatched up the next one in a flash and downed it in one go. Beer flowed over my mustache, dripping onto my beard, delivering pure bliss—after all, this was our homegrown stuff from old codger Magni's stores, which Muradin had brought along for the road.
The bright, hoppy aroma assaulted my nostrils, the icy drink slid down my throat, nearly scorching it and granting a rich, inimitable taste.
Fresh, frothy head with bits of hops floated on the surface, swelling and fermenting right before our eyes.
With every barrel cracked open, it grew, rising in a lush, soft cap, and we'd plunge our mugs right into it, scooping fresh pours and joyfully gulping down the exquisite brew.
Little Tim filled a new mug for me, and without a second thought, I got to work on it, chugging it down to the dregs, letting the foam settle on my face and giving me a comical, good-natured look. My beard turned white, sparking rowdy, infectious laughter from the onlookers.
The rank and file, junior officers, sergeants, and petty officers—that was my crowd, the audience I was emptying barrels with at a steady clip, while the top brass sat with sour faces, paying lip service to courtesy and playing diplomacy with the new guests.
That's right—our feast of life, thrown by old Thoras Trollbane to celebrate victory over an ancient foe, had been crashed by uninvited guests who'd been grinding the brains of the tired, feral mob of men for two hours straight. These guys had been dreaming for weeks of gorging like pigs and unwinding with their battle brothers, then dragging the serving girls off to the corners—turning our stronghold into a den of debauchery.
Leading this pack of stuffed shirts were bigwigs from Dalaran, Alterac, and the Cloud Peak, who'd shown up right at the end and were now trying to squeeze some concessions out of the pissed-off Thoras.
The reps from my own kin were trying hardest, along with some nobody from Alterac—that piddly mountainous kingdom between Lordaeron and Stromgarde. The pair were practically tag-teaming, but Trollbane's mustache was impregnable; he twitched it furiously, shot gloomy glares, and gripped his mug so hard we were already betting when it'd crack.
Considering the poor bastard hadn't even gotten a proper rest yet... Ancestors rest the soul of whoever pushes Stromgarde's king over the edge first.
Though, I'll admit, I was way more interested in the other guests, from the far north, the very edge of our continent.
A whole delegation of elves, identical in face, dressed alike, and rarely showing hands outside their body-hiding cloaks. They sat meekly next to Anduin Lothar, exchanging words with him and bombarding him with awkward questions—his face made it clear he didn't want to talk.
The man squirmed like an eel on a hot pan, steering topics away, devoting himself entirely to food, but he still had to circle back to the chat with the "highborn" lords time and again.
We locked eyes a couple times, and what I read in Anduin's gaze didn't bode well for me.
"Got to save my buddies."
My drunken brain thought.
The beer was hitting my head hard, though maybe it was because I was chasing liter mugs of mushroom booze with it—whatever, didn't matter.
With great effort, I hauled myself to my feet, hoisted my mug high, and belched loud enough to fill the hall, instantly drawing every eye around me—especially our highborn asses, who eyed the mugs scattered around me and my happy drunk mug with sour envy.
"To King Thoras Trollbane, who proudly bears his family name!" A bit of beer sloshed onto the nearest neighbors amid joyful shouts and cheers. "Your gods watch over you, Trollbane! Your ancestors admire you, Thoras, as do we all! To Stromgarde!"
"TO STROMGARDE!"
My slurring, crooked speech sparked a real uproar. Soldiers leaped from their seats, pouring down anything that could even remotely warm their weary brains, greedily gulping every drop before slamming mugs on tables or smashing them on neighbors.
Comical scuffles, wrestling, table games, shouts, songs, and a thousand toasts. All this mayhem swirled around me as I saluted with my mug toward the pissed-off king, who dreamed of diving into the revelry harder than anyone.
Thoras's mustache bristled aggressively, promising me a gruesome and truly just revenge for my jabs.
Though, truth be told, I feared Muradin more—his eyes were so red and bulging, like he'd sat on a troll tusk. Magni's brother gawked and snorted, watching each downed mug like a beaten pup—mugs that me and his crew were refilling with enviable regularity.
"A bit more and he'll probably cry... Heh-heh. Time to finish him off!"
"Soldiers, brothers-in-arms, folk of glorious kingdoms, defenders of Azeroth!"
My thunderous voice echoed off the walls, drowning out the musicians and the nobles chatting among themselves, who were trying to ignore our very existence—at least the Lordaeron ones. Unlike them, Stromgarde's nobility sat by their king, staunchly backing his "dry" endeavor and drilling my mug with equally venomous glares.
"We've gathered here today with you all
To celebrate the hour of victory won!"
"HUA!"
The roar of hundreds of iron lungs shook the feast hall's walls, making our lofty guests and many of their toadies grimace in displeasure.
"Every fighter in the battle mattered to us,
Ready to fight for our cause!"
"HUA!"
Clinks and crashes of smashed dishes and mugs as adrenaline-pumped warriors toasted each other, trying to sing along, catching the rhythm, pounding tables and floors.
The din was like a mountain landslide or storming the castle gates.
But the faces of the numerous guests twisted the other way, rightly figuring the song line was aimed at them.
"We marched through the lands of cursed trolls,
The losses were horrific!"
"HUA!"
A few dwarves headbutted, knocking out the youngest and weakest while the winners swayed on chairs and benches, blissfully grinning.
"And to the stinking walls of Jintha'Alor
We finally drew near!"
"OOOOO!"
Clambering onto the table, I felt the rhymes getting worse and worse, but seeing the grimaces on my friends' faces, I just kept pouring fuel on the fire—especially thrilled at Muradin's despair, who loved composing songs and joining these shindigs.
"We fought and battered their fortifications,
Hoping to storm and take!
No doubt lingered in our hearts then,
How we'd make them pay!"
Tired of waiting for the song's end, some started chugging, mimicking the dwarves, but the weak humans couldn't handle the might of our glorious beer and dropped "stone dead."
"Victory shone on the horizon,
Warming manly hearts with glee!
But when troubles hit the front lines,
We all blanched visibly!"
Slowing the tempo, it seemed like I was building suspense—though really, I was fighting vomit from bouncing too hard and breathing fast.
"They called on witchcraft and monsters for aid,
Fearing they'd lose the fight!
Never before had I seen such a melee,
Hard to recall without fright."
The humans held their breath; many, eyes closed, recalled what happened after the massive Loa descended from the heavens to earth, killing and devouring everything in its path.
"But heroes emerged from smoke and ash,
Promising death to the beast!
Their faith never faltered for a moment,
Blinding our foes at least.
With swords they shattered
The bloody deity!
And spears flew from clouds of dust
Slaying ancient evil!"
Turning to face the king and his surrounding advisors, friends, and comrades, I raised my beer overhead, grinning with all thirty-two teeth, my bright-red beard shining.
"So fill the cups once more to the brim," stopping the song, I spoke into the absolute anticipatory hush, eyes burning in expectation of the next revelry wave, "we drink to the heroes now!"
"YES!"
With a warm smile, I looked straight into the king's eyes, then swept my gaze over the rest. All those who'd fought alongside us in this little war that claimed so many lives but promised—and would deliver—prosperity to Stromgarde in a couple generations. King Thoras had carved his name into his people's history as the one who gave Stromgarders a shot at survival.
Downing my mug to the dregs, I felt my legs give out and collapsed right onto the table, back-first, scattering food remnants and dishes amid the roaring laughter of nearby soldiers.
A happy, serene smile lit my face, and the greatest joy came from the indescribable Dwarven curses flying from the head table.
"And I love you too, Muradin."
Surrendering to that pleasant, all-enveloping warmth from toes to scalp, I closed my eyes, drifting into peaceful alcoholic oblivion, imagining naked women of every race dancing around me... Except tusked orcs, trolls, goblins... The list'd be too long—just beautiful women.
When I woke, the first thing I saw was a pretty, refined face gazing down at me with icy contempt.
Thinking I was still dreaming, I reached out toward the sweet vision, running my rough palm along her slender thigh, kneading and pinching it as one does.
"Heh-heh-heh, nice," my hands had a bit of boar grease on them, but smooth female skin looked even better with it, "just need to fatten you up a tad, darling, and it'd be perfect..."
"What the—?"
Not sensing the trap, I leaned in closer to rub my face against that porcelain-white skin when the scabbard of a blade cracked me right in the head.
Tumbling off the bed amid a peal of a thousand bells, I clutched my temples, showering all present—especially the little bitch who'd walloped me with her three-kilo club—with prime Dwarven curses.
"You little bitch, who starts hitting drunk guys in the head!"
"Would you prefer somewhere else?"
"Of course, fuck you," my head was splitting, sounds muffled like underwater, "Menu shirumund!"
I stopped the next blow inches from the target. Sweating buckets, I gripped the scabbard right over her crotch, my hands locked rigid from the sheer danger.
Throwing an annoyed glance at the still emotionless elf face, I twisted and kicked her knee, finally drawing the first emotions on that fasting mug.
Her brows shot up in disbelief as she dropped to her knees, wincing and rubbing the spot.
"Weren't you taught manners, you soak?" Grimacing and spitting through clenched teeth, the elf burned me with a dissatisfied glare, the fire there growing hotter than the cold by the second. "You can't hit a lady..."
"You can't hit people in the balls, you little bitch!" My finger, more like a hairy sausage, jabbed at her not-so-prominent assets. "Don't hide behind your tits when you've got a weapon in hand!"
"We're not on a battlefield!"
"What's the difference," seeing words alone wouldn't cut it, I readied another knee strike on the pointy-ears, "if you attacked me?"
Sadly, my new kick whiffed, but the nimble wench got to her feet and now circled me eagerly, loosening her fists and neck.
But then the room doors flew open, and in marched another pointy-eared dame with servants in tow—majestic, but unlike this one, her cloak couldn't hide all the gifts nature had bestowed so generously.
"Well, fuck me sideways! I swear on Khaz's balls!" The thigh slap rang out juicy and loud, making both elves flinch in surprise... Or maybe at my words? "These are living weapons, damn it!"
Feeling my lips stretch into a lecherous grin, I missed my foe closing in for a kick. But thank the ancestors, the new elf threw up a magical barrier around me, blocking the perfect woman's pointed toe frozen by my temple.
My gaze unwillingly slid along those ideal hips to the steel-capped boot that could easily cave in my skull with enough force.
"She wanted to kill me? Crazy bitch!"
Backing off farther, I lunged for my clothes—only now noticing I was in just a shirt—and fished into the inner pocket, yanking out a pistol and firing on the spot. My other hand rummaged for the second.
The shot shattered the quiet, freezing everyone—especially the slack-jawed servants posed by the door.
"Everyone freeze, faces up, asses down," still half-drunk, I spouted nonsense but steadily aimed the second pistol at the elf pair, "what the hell are you doing here? I didn't call for anyone."
"We came... You called?"
"You filthy beast," the sword I'd tossed on the floor flew from its sheath as the ice-face hooked it with her foot, flipping it up in one smooth motion, "I'll kill you, you bearded pig!"
"Come on, girl! Freaks way uglier than you thought they were smarter and stronger, but you know what," reloading the first pistol one-handed, I aimed both, one at each elf, "I ain't met anyone yet smarter than a bullet. The ones competing with it get their heads blown clean off, believe me?!"
"Everyone calm down," stepping between us, the sorceress—who else could she be?—raised her hands, smiling humbly and pleading with her eyes at her friend, "please! Things got off on the wrong foot. Let's start over."
As the bitch lowered her sword, the mage fixed the same begging look on me. Her eyes were touchingly wide, lips curved in a gentle smile, and the "hills" peeking from her cloak stirred the imagination. So much that I felt the Khaz Modan volcano stirring.
"Ahem... Yeah, sure," turning away, I hastily yanked on my pants, imagining how talks would go if these delicate flowers saw my hard-on, "then I'll repeat the questions. Who are you? And what do you want?"
"They were definitely at the feast, guests of Thoras... Damn, should've bailed to the workshop yesterday—I'm king and god there; if I'd shot 'em, no one'd say shit... Probably."
"Of course, Master Rodgirn, allow us to introduce ourselves and greet the dwarf who personally rid the elven people of an ancient and dangerous foe," standing by her friend, the sorceress tilted her head, upping the cuteness, "we came to witness Zul'jin's death and, if possible, take his skull to the commander of our Farstriders. She promised any money, treasures, and..."
"Just give the name already!" The pants ties barely budged, so to hide my junk, I faced away from the pointy-ears. Shouldn't have drunk so much yesterday... "Or should I call you by numbers?"
"Little shit..."
The furious whisper—probably audible in Ironforge—I stoutly ignored, pissing off the swordswoman even more. Holding a straight face without grinning was tough, sensing the ice-bitch seething.
"Oh, yes, sorry..." Fluttering her lashes tremulously, Busty pressed a hand to her chest and, swaying naturally, sang out their names. "I'm Nanandiel, and this is my sister Sarandiel."
"Your parents sure lacked imagination..."
"What'd you say?"
Scowling and hands on hips, Sarandiel leaned in like a proper peasant-pincher from the high road. Just needed a pouty lip to complete the image.
Meanwhile, her sister smiled politely. But if at first I took it for more mature and condescending—who knows how old this broad is—the longer I stared, the more I saw emptiness in her eyes. She probably didn't even get what I meant... Or more likely, brushed it off—who cares what a mayfly babbles when thousands more'll cross your path.
Jabbing a finger at the mage sister—throwing off the swordswoman—I leaned close, whispering into her long pointy ear.
"She simple or something?"
"You've gone too far, shorty..."
"Oh, come on, Sarochka," butchering the name, I knew what I was doing. First time seeing that much rage on a girl's face, veins pulsing like crazy—scary shit, "I'm worried, maybe you forgot her meds?"
"I'll kill you..."
"And you're Master Rodgirn, right?"
The discussed one's voice cut in as she loomed over her sister, plopping her ripe melons—cloaked but molding her skull and part of Sarochka's forehead—onto her head.
Gulping thick spit under Sara's incinerating glare, I skirted the pissed elf and gently clasped the girl's tender hand in both of mine, pressing lips to it like the human aristos the elves supposedly trained in everything.
"Yes, my flower," add a husky note, smooth the beard, wait for panties to fly... Screw her age, had to try, "but you can call me..."
"Corpse."
The sword-drawing rasp was familiar; I spun quick, grabbing the raging elf's wrist and shoving the blade home.
"No need to get mad—you're not as gifted as your sister, but still pretty damn fine," had to tighten the grip or this bitch'd sink teeth into my face, "enough games now. If all you wanted was Zul'jin's skull, afraid you'll leave empty-handed, so please vacate..."
Shifting topics and keeping her sister between me and the swordswoman, I kept dressing, gathering scattered gear. Glancing around, I realized this wasn't my room but played it cool.
"...My quarters, I've got a ton ahead."
"More drinking like an animal and shaking the castle walls with your snoring?"
"That too," not a shred of doubt, not an ounce of shame. Dwarf or what?! "Work a bit, then back at it—the feast's dragging a couple days, so..."
Waving goodbye, I bolted from the room, snagging a chicken leg and a foaming goblet en route.
"Hope it's beer. And hope I never see that pair again. Too rowdy, no sense of humor... But hot as hell, the bitches—even the grouch."
***
Read the story months ahead of the public release — early chapters are available on my Patreon: patreon.com/Granulan