The ramshackle tavern in the rundown town of Bloodfrost was crowded with anxious and angry dwarves. Only a few dozen kinsmen were all that remained of Clan Grikk. Men and women who had recently had their world upended. Scowling brows and clenched jaws were numerous, lit by flickering torchlight.
“The Bloodfrost mines are flooded, Pale! Drowned for good, with all our treasures and half our kin with ‘em! If we don’t get to that new claim quick, someone else will, and then we’re gonna up an’ starve!” Said one dwarf clansman.
“We’re already starving!” retorted a burly clanswoman.
“Face it, Chief Grikk, we gotta answer Torryg’s call. Ironshard is but a short journey from here, and according to him, it’s mines are all but abandoned and ready for excavation. All he needs is more dwarves! He ain’t a half-bad sort, rumors say.”
“Bah and phooey!” Chief Pale Grikk spat upon the tavern floor. He chugged a flagon down from one of his daughter’s last casks, and spat again. He missed the spittoon both times. “Last thing I wanna do is belly-crawl our clan over to some other clan beggin’ for charity like homeless waifs! We can find another damn claim on our own!” He slammed his empty tankard down upon the bar.
“I fear it won’t be soon enough, beloved.” From her place beside him at the tavern’s wide bar, Chief Pale’s wife Gondra spoke softly in the hush that had settled around in the room. Several months pregnant, she deliberately stroked her rounded stomach. Angry mutters followed Pale’s words, and others chimed in behind Gondra’s. The remains of Clan Grikk were torn between pride and desperation, and struggled to find an accord amongst themselves.
“The ale’s almost gone, Pa!” Shouted Pale’s daughter Helak, “The barley’s lost to the flood, and so’s the coin for more.” And that, a dwarf might say, was the nugget that broke the mule’s back.
The tavern’s common room exploded into chaos. Shouts of rage and despair cried out from all corners. Even Chief Pale Grikk let his temper loose, first smashing his flagon to a pulp with a roar and then flipping several nearby tables his clansmen were standing upon. Spittle spattered across his straw-colored beard and his eyes bulged out from underneath shaggy blond brows. Then the fists started flying. Dwarven men and women finally gave in to their pent up angst and worry for their struggling clan. They wept over lost loved ones and raged over the lack of ale, while simultaneously indulging in some much needed brouhaha and violence.
In short, they let off some steam.
When the dust finally cleared, the remains of Clan Grikk helped each other up, patted shoulders genially, righted tables and chairs as best they could, and turned as one towards their clan leader.
Pale huffed. He chewed his beard. “Aaaaah!” He screamed and pulled out a clump of hair. “Fine. Fuck it. It’s settled. We’ll be off to Ironshard. Pack yer shite, load the wagons, and tell the mules it’s their lucky day! They’ll be haulin’ us out into the fresh air and across Damarta instead o’ through the damn mines.”
The dwarves of Clan Grikk cheered. “For the ale!”
“For me ale!” Shouted Helak!
“For the bloody ale.” Grumbled Chief Pale.
