Weasels, Golden Weasels!

A packed in becomes a crossroads for our adventurers.

“I-I think they've made a wee mistake lad,” Dagran turned and pleaded with the guards of the gates, “yah see…” 

The loud rumble of the gigantic stone gates closing, cut off the old dwarf’s words in mid sentence. Dag sighed miserably as he turned toward the world that was laid before him. He had not been beyond the Karnath Pass for a very long time, ever since his first time to be precise, and even then he couldn't remember it. So Dag had every reason to be frightened of this new place, and he was, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He felt bare, exposed, and vulnerable.

“Bah, ‘tis like I’ve been born again,” he cursed to himself disheartened.

Not quite knowing what to do next, Dagran Stonebeard pulled a map from his top left inner pocket of his suede coat.

“Okee, if I’m ere,” Dagran turned the map and cocked his head. 

He had never used a map before for the simple reason that he had never before needed one. Maps were generally used whilst traveling and the dwarves of Karnthin usually objected to anything that meant leaving their great protected city, and traveling was in the top five of that list. Therefore the dwarves had no need for maps, and thus map reading was not taught to the dwarven youth. 

After intently studying the map for a few minutes, Dagran came to an assumption.

“If the city of Boran lies south, then south I shall go!” he concluded.

Happy with this conclusion, the poor old dwarf faced yet another problem.

“Hmmm,” he pondered, looking left and right, then straight-ahead, “which way lies south?” he muttered.

The road that ran past the Karnath Pass was the great southern road, and straight-ahead was nothing but barren desert awaiting the snowfall.

Dagran’s only choices were to go left or to go right. For the road had to at least lead south one way and north the other way. Reaching into his inner pocket again, Dagran then pulled out his ‘Lucky’ coin, and placed it upon the side of his index finger.

“Heads gees left, tails gees right,” he muttered the rules to himself. Then placing his stumpy thumb beneath the coin, he tossed it high into the air. The ‘lucky’ coin flipped and spun in the chill sky, glistening and shining from the dulled winter’s sun. Higher and higher it went, all the while Dagran was desperately hoping for the right outcome.

The coin started to make its decent back to earth, feeling its weight being pulled down by the natural effects of gravity. Just when it had reached the halfway mark of its decent, Dagran plucked the coin out of the air, slammed it upon his forearm and closed his eyes tight. He then slowly removed his index finger, and then his middle finger and one by one uncovered the result that lay beneath.

Dagran still had his eyes shut firmly, not daring to peek at the coin that rested upon his short and stumpy forearm.

“Bah, what blasted difference does it make,” he concluded, “I’d have made the wrong bloody choice either way.”

And with that the dwarf, lifting one white haired brow at a time, opened his sagged and aged eyelids and discovered his path. The coin had landed tails up; the direction was to the right.

“By my beard! I knew it!” he roared, “that were the direction I’d have chosen! I knew south was that way!” he proclaimed arrogantly. 

He stuffed the map and the coin back into his top left inner pocket of his suede coat, then set forth.

Dagran now had direction as he walked onward, and little did he know, his direction was north.

*****

The chill wind was blowing from the south, his eyes watered as it whipped and stung them, and cracked his lips. The lashing wind also struck his ears, rendering him virtually deaf, if the halfling had of woken up and said something; Bishop would have been oblivious. The tired and tattered warrior had been walking for hours nonstop, carrying what he was now considering calling his new third arm. He was just about to stop for a break, and to see if the halfling was still breathing, when something in the distance caught his eye. Bishop saw smoke, and at first he thought it must be some sort of mirage, an effect from his lack of food these past few days. Then he smelled the meat, meat that was being cooked. 

Now, this drifting stench might not have smelled so good if he weren't staving, but at that point in time, the cooking meat’s aroma sent Bishop’s stomach grumbling, and his mouth watering.

Only then did he know that it was no illusion, for the halfling’s stomach grumbled also, he could feel it on his shoulder. Bishop groaned to himself upon remembering the little man, but that gave him incentive, the drive to make it to the smoke’s source. And so the warrior trudged on once more, but now his goal was within sight. 

*****

‘The Inn of the Golden Weasel’ the sign read, as its rusty hinges squeaked in the winter wind. For all Bishop cared, the place could have been called ‘The Crypt of a thousand Corpses’ and he still would have gone inside for a feed, if not to rid himself of the cause for the crick in his neck, the halfling. 

Rain began to spatter as storm clouds rolled in unexpectedly. The inn was still half a mile away, as the warrior gritted his teeth and stepped on again. The wind chilled his soggy flesh, and Bishop started to shiver.

“Not long now, just a few more yards,” he pushed himself onward, thinking of the jug of ale he’d be sure to enjoy once there.

“Um excuse me sir warrior,” the halfling simply said, “But could you please make a move on? I’m quite cold you see, this winter rain is no good at all, and my guts are just so terribly empty. I might have thought they had just popped up and strolled away, if it weren't for that infuriating grumbling sound they keep…” Malingrad halted his words. 

Realizing that the warrior had stopped dead in his tracks, and was now looking at him over his shoulder, he started to explain.

“I mean, I really am quite bored of this journey, not to say that you are boring,” Mal was digging his grave even deeper by the sentence, “I mean to say, you have been quite some entertainment these last few days…”

Malingrad Thimblethumb fell face first into the muddy puddle that had started to flood the road.
Bishop said nothing and started to walk toward the inn again. Mal bounced back to his feet, quickly wiped the mud from his face and ran his small child-like palm through his greasy, wet, black Mohawk.

“Hey you! Warrior sir, I haven’t had a chance to introduce my self,” Mal yelled out over the constant splashes of the raindrops.

The warrior said nothing. 

“Hmm, he must not have heard me,” assumed Mal, stretching his legs and arms as a cat does after a heavy slumber. He decided he would catch up to the warrior and meet his savior formally.

“Hullo! I’m Malingrad Thimblethumb!”

Bishop jumped back startled, his right hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, which was worn on his left hip. The warrior saw nobody. Well that is, he saw nobody until he looked down and his eyes met with the halfling’s. 

Malingrad was soaked to the bone, his normally stiff Mohawk, was now matted against his face, and was stuck there by a mixture of water and grime. His short stature and childlike features were accompanied by a few weathered wrinkles about his eyes; these were the only telltale signs of his true age.

Bishop sighed with relief, as he had no desire to be in a fight today. That was how much the past few days had taken out of him. The warrior simply stood there and looked at Mal. The halfling was now beginning to frown due to the long pause, then prompted the warrior again by holding out his miniature hand, ready to shake, and poked him right in the gizzards.

“I said…” �" he drew the word ‘said’ out to emphasize it �" “hullo, I’m Malingrad Thimblethumb, and now your supposed to shake my hand, and tell me your name…”

Malingrad frowned again as he saw the warrior’s face turn from a state relief to a state of annoyance.
Bishop knew that this would never end without him introducing himself. 

So, as calmly and self controlled as he could, he said “Bishop Mon-Durgoth, now I have a place to be and…” he paused to calm his rage, “because of some very unfortunate events, I am late. So if you will excuse me.” 

Bishop turned toward the Inn of the Golden Weasel and made his way to the bat-wing doors.

Mal was left in the rain, which was growing heavier by the moment. He smiled and found it very hard to keep control of it. He tried to wipe it from his face, as his mother used to tell him. He tried holding it down with both of his index fingers, but nothing worked, so he just left it there. Malingrad Thimblethumb smiled to himself because now he had a new best friend.

“Bishop Mon-Durgoth” he repeated to himself, still grinning, before following the warrior through the bat-wing doors.

*****

Aleesha wiped down the ale soaked pine bar, preparing it for the night’s customers. She flung her kitchen rag over her left shoulder and stood back to see if she had missed anything about the place. The barmaid was quite proud of her efforts; she had basically rearranged the whole common room. She spent the morning hours mending a few tattered curtains and polishing the stained wooden floors to a high gloss. In the afternoon she had scrubbed and rearranged the tables and chairs. The room, somehow, looked as if it had gained space, observed Aleesha as she complimented herself. 

The hardworking barmaid would do the same thing every year, about the same time, just before the winter. This was because the winter brought in the travelers from off the road. They hired rooms and usually stayed for a couple of nights. So Aleesha would prepare and get the inn ready for the busy season, ‘the good word travels far,’ her father used to say. 

The inn’s common room was quite a small area, not much larger than a small stable. There were two medium sized tables situated against the opposite wall to that which the bat-wing doors hung from. A third, but larger table was positioned near the entrance, and stood upon a large purple rug. This table was usually used for parties or conferences when required. 

If one were to walk through the bat-wing doors, into the inn, one would probably first notice the bar to the far right hand wall, near the galley door. The bar was approximately eight feet in length and made of a dark, hard wood that had been recently re-varnished. In front stood four bar stools made from the same dark wood. The stools had red velvet cushioning and were bolted down to the shiny floor decking. Behind the bar were three large barrels, one labeled ‘Ale,’ another labeled ‘Wine,’ and the third was not labeled. The three barrels were mounted upon a waist height bench. The bench also contained a wash basin and various snacks that travelers could purchase for their long journeys. All in all, the bar was the inn’s pride and joy. Aleesha took very good care of it. Every summer she would keep up the maintenance by taking back the glossy surface and reapplying the varnish.

Directly across from the bar were the fireplace in one corner, and an old rickety piano in the other. Neither looked as if they had been used in quite a while, although this night the fireplace would be ablaze, as the weather grew colder.

*****

That night was also the night that the Warrior and his small companion would hire a room. Aleesha had been suspicious of the halfling, but he had insisted he was with the warrior and that he would be spending the night in his room. She was not going to let him stay at first, then after he stuffed a handful of silver coins into her palm she changed her mind. It had been a slow summer after all. 

Later that evening, the warrior came down to the bar for a few jugs of ale. The halfling soon followed. By that time the common room was getting a little busier, thanks to the pouring rain outside that never looked like ceasing. The fire blazed, and the night went on as always. The money safe behind the bar grew plentiful. 

That night The Inn of the Golden Weasel had done well for itself.