DM Post: The Adventures of Brotar

Brotar marched uneasily through Haven, the steady staccato of his dwarven stride ringing out against the solid stone architecture. It was early morning, and the freshly cresting sun sent hazy beams of light through the slender arrow slits that served as the fortress’s windows. Haven’s halls were quiet at this early hour, and the young dwarf found the walk calming in spite of his uneasiness. Shortly he came to the grand foyer and stepped through the massive oak doors and into the dew soaked grass of the courtyard.

A densely muscled gnome lay on his back breathing heavily. Standing above him was easily the largest man Brotar had ever seen. Samred was over six feet tall and at least 300 pounds of thick veiny muscle. Sweat ran of his face and saturated the bright red beard he wore, and droplets fell from the ends of it with each breath. The gnome let out a groan from his position on the ground.

“You rely too much on that axe of yours. Not much for wrestling now are you?” Samred said in his rough growly voice.

“It was supposed to be a knife fight” the gnome wheezed, gesturing to two wooden sparring knives lying a few feet to the left of him.

“Any knife fight can dissolve into a wrestling match if your opponent is willing to get hurt a little. Frankly I’m surprise you survived this long. What, do your opponents just line up like wood to be chopped for the fire?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Yes they do.”

Brotar patiently waited through this exchange, not knowing if it was appropriate to speak or not. He had a passing familiarity with Samred, the big man taught personal combat to all the troops stationed at Haven, but the gnome was something else entirely. Guy Fiftynames, or Guy Axefury as he was known to the troops, was already a legend in the Freelands. Even though he was one of seven who hammered out the Freelands’ Constitution, the country was based around lands that were rightfully his to begin with. The dwarves who migrated to the Freelands from Dwarfwarren, like Brotar, saw Guy Axefury as their thane, and king of the Freelands in everything but name only. Guy looked over Brotar’s way.

“Are you the soldier Bjorn sent for my errand?”

“His name is now Eric milord.”

Guy grimaced. “Right, the name change. Wow that’s confusing. Ok then, are you the soldier Eric sent?”

“Yes milord.”

Guy glanced up at Samred. Samred winked, turned, and strolled off whistling merrily as he went. Guy got to his feet with a groan.

“What’s your name?”

“Brotar milord.”

“Very well Brotar. Walk with me a bit.”

So saying, Guy began walking back towards the fortress. Brotar quickly fell in line a few feet behind him. Guy turned his head and said, “I said walk with me, not behind me Brotar.”

Brotar quicken his pace and drew along side his ruler. The two made their way into the fortress and crossed the great entrance hall. Haven was fully awake now and servants and dignitaries hustled back and forth, beginning the day’s business. They exited the great hall and made their way down the corridor where the Executive Council Members had their offices. As they did, a slender man in comfortable clothing crossed their paths. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair was tousled; he did not look as if he got much sleep the previous night.

“How goes the research?” Guy asked casually.

“Frustratingly.” The man replied. “I don’t know how Garam does it with such a cheerful demeanor.” His eyes swept over Guy’s bruises. “Samred kick your ass again?”

“It doesn’t make sense! I know I’ve surpassed him, and I always win when we spar with axes…”

“You rely too much on your axe.”

“Samred said the same thing.”

“Who’s this?” The man asked, turning his gaze on Brotar. Of all the people in Haven, this man – Virgil Deathbow – unsettled Brotar the most. His gaze was always one of unnerving intensity despite his casual conversation.

“He’s going to take care of something for me. How long are you staying this time?”

“I leave after lunch.”

“Okay, see you later.” And with that Guy and Brotar continued until they reached Guy’s office. His office was dominated by several stacks of parchment that towered imposingly down on the meager contents of the room. Guy’s eyes ran over the stacks and he grumbled to himself as he maneuvered behind the simple table that served as a desk.

“Have a seat.” Guy said, gesturing to the two plain wicker chairs that faced him across the table. Brotar hesitated for a moment and then chose the chair closest to him.

“I need you to run an errand for me Brotar.” Guy said. “Are you familiar with the area to the north that is still known as the Twilight Lands?” Brotar nodded in the affirmative. Guy continued, “There is a settlement there known as Eveningmist. Havern the blacksmith lives there. I want you to take him this.” Guy reached over and handed Brotar a wicked looking great axe. Brotar swallowed as he gingerly received the weapon; Guy Fiftynames’ axe was as famous as he was. It was a hefty double bladed axe with some large building etched on the blades. The upper points of each blade extended into a spike – rumor had it that Guy would impale the occasional foe on the end of his axe. “Hang out until he is finish working on it,” Guy continued, “and then bring it back to me.” A long silence stretched out until Brotar realized Guy was waiting for an answer. Tearing his eyes away from the glistening blade, he murmured an affirmative. Guy gave Brotar a supportive smile and then grimaced as his eyes drifted to the closest stack of papers. Sighing, he pulled a few sheets from the top of the stack and began scanning the text it contained. Sensing the dismissal, Brotar quietly stood up and exited the small office. Just as he was about to step across the threshold, Guy’s voice drifted out lazily from behind him.

“Oh Brotar?”

“Yes my lord?” Brotar replied without turning.

“Be kind to my axe. I wouldn’t lose it if I were you.”

The sturdy gnome’s voice was casual, even relaxed, but Brotar felt his blood turn to ice at his words. He took a moment to steady himself before he spoke.

“No sir.”

*********************************


Dreia had become a metropolis almost overnight, and because of this the streets were almost always packed. Workmen carried or carted a never ending supply of building materials through the crowded throng. The construction crew worked practically non-stop but could not satisfy the demand for new residences and shops. Brotar kept a close watch on his purse as he threaded his way through the crowd; pick pocketing was a major industry in the congested city. The quartermaster had given him four hundred gold pieces to cover expenses on the journey and it made him nervous. It was more than three year’s wages to the young dwarf, double his meager savings, and Brotar was more aware of his heavy coin pouch than he was of the large weapon he was transporting, wrapped in oiled leather and strapped to his back.

He had left Haven much later than he intended. There had been a constant barrage of advice, warnings, and requests to see or hold the legendary axe. Brotar politely listened to the advice and warnings and gently refused the requests to see or hold. By the time he was able to pass through the massive gates it was already mid afternoon. Dreia was a four hour walk, and now he found himself pushing through Dreia’s crowded streets thinking about dinner and lodging for the night. A fellow guardsman had once recommended an Inn called the Jolly Badger, and Brotar decided to try his luck there.

The sun was setting on the noisy city when he found his destination. The Jolly Badger was an old building made of solid but eroded stone and weathered oak standing out in sharp contrast to the fresh stone buildings of the city. A faded sign depicting a laughing badger head hung over a well worn door; the threshold had been ground down to almost nothing by decades of patrons’ traffic. Brotar stepped into a small entry room where a pleasant young woman sat behind an antique desk.

“What’s your pleasure good sir?” She asked cheerfully.

“Um, dinner, a drink, and a room for the night if you’ve got it.”

“We’ve got all three. The room will be three gold pieces, food and drink can be found in our common room.”

Brotar paid the girl and stepped into the common room of the Jolly Badger where he was beset by pleasant odors. Most bars he had been in smelled of stale beer and sweat, but here pipe smoke, dried fruit, and fresh baked bread blended their smells into an enticing aroma that drained the tension out of his shoulders. A fire was dancing merrily in the large stone fireplace, and the room was well illuminated by plain candle filled chandeliers that hung from the dependable oaken ceiling. Comfortable chairs and tables of a simple village design were scattered throughout the room facing a small wooden stage. Along the wall ran a sturdy bar where a skinny old man talked animatedly with an elven patron while he poured drinks. Two serving girls in modest peasant dresses moved through the tables taking orders. One of them, a plump blonde human with dimpled cheeks, approached Brotar and guided him to a vacant table.

“Here you go good master dwarf. What can I fetch you?”

“Hmm,” Brotar said as he slid into his chair, “what does the kitchen have tonight?”

“We have a beef stew master dwarf.”

“That will be fine; and ale as well.”

“Coming right up,” she replied and with a dancer’s flourish she made her way to the bar. A few minutes later she returned with a large clay tankard, a steaming bowl, and a small loaf of bread all of which she placed in front of Brotar.

“That will be twelve silver” she said with a smile. Brotar carefully counted out the requested coinage, and she left with a friendly squeeze to his shoulder. The stew was hearty and thick and tasted of thyme and bay leaves. The bread was still warm from the oven and had a tasty sour flavor that complemented the stew. Most of all Brotar was impressed by the ale which he recognized immediately as brewed in Dwarfwarren. Brotar had not been terribly hungry, but he fell into his meal like a starving man. He was just about to order a second ale when the older man who had been behind the bar stepped onto the wooden stage.

“Good patrons,” the old man said, increasing volume until he had everyone’s attention, “we have a bard who wishes to take the stage. Please give him your regard.” Brotar’s eyebrows raised and several other patrons whispered excitedly, while it was not uncommon for a minstrel to play in an inn such as this – indeed that is what the stage was for – a full fledged bard was a rare treat in the even the most expensive inns. Brotar’s eyes opened even more as a small gnome is a ridiculous hat got up on the small stage. Floyd Fiftynames was Guy Furyaxe’s brother, and was also a member of the Executive Council of the Freelands. While Guy was enormously respected, his brother Floyd was regarded with a sort of wry amusement by the soldiers of Haven. You could never predict what would catch Floyd’s interest and what would be waved off as undeserving of his attention. It made for an interesting individual and a frustrating ruler.

Floyd began to speak as he tuned his instrument.

“Good evening one and all. It’s a pleasure to see a good number of patrons in such a fine establishment; the Jolly Badger is a favorite place of mine and I always stop in when I’m not saving the world or running international politics. I’m going to open up with a longer song; it’s not one of my most recent but it is one of my favorites.”

And with that he burst into song, the lute he held intertwining its notes with his voice. The song was a local favorite, but Floyd gave it a personal depth that made it unique. The ballad told of a battle at an inn called the Cracked Flagon where a group of local heroes and notable individuals soundly defeated a large force of mercenaries that culminated in a fight with a dragon. It was one thing to hear the song from a local minstrel, quite another to hear it from the song’s author and a central participant in the battle. The entire crowd in the Jolly Badger listened with rapt attention until the last haunting notes drifted off leaving a feeling of resounding triumph in all the listeners. Floyd calmly took a pull from a flagon he had set on stage and then launched into a song lamenting the difficulty of fighting zombies. Every time Brotar resolved to head upstairs the animated little gnome began another captivating song. He played well into the night repeating a few songs that had struck particularly strong chords with his audience. Not a customer left until Floyd was finally finished singing. Brotar looked at his table and realized he had gone through eight tankards of ale. Glancing around he saw that just about every table was littered with empty mugs; the bar had done an amazing amount of business tonight. Floyd hopped down from the stage with a flourish. Brotar stretched and tried to shake the ale fog from his head. Standing up he pulled out his purse and began sifting through the coinage, looking for appropriate coinage to leave on the table as a tip.

“Excuse me,” said a soft voice at his elbow. Brotar turned to look only to discover that Floyd Fiftynames was addressing him. “You’re a soldier from Haven, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir,” Brotar replied in surprise. While he was wearing armor and was well armed, he did not have on the distinctive surcoat that identified him as a soldier of Haven.

“Well I hope you enjoyed the show. I know you probably don’t get to hear a master bard play such exquisite works of art very often. To the point though is the other patrons enjoyed the show quite thoroughly and their drinks even more so. And you will notice it is quite late. The streets of Dreia, though new and well built, are not the safest place for your average citizen, especially this late and when said citizen is roaring drunk. I am going to escort some of these good audience members to their resting place as an act of good will and I was hoping you would offer to do the same.”

Brotar shook his head again and blinked at the little gnome a few times. “You want me to walk them home?”

“Indeed, that is what I was hoping you would volunteer to do!”

Brotar’s eye scanned the crowd of about thirty. Most were simple laborers and shopkeepers; there didn’t seem to be a mean soul in the bunch. Brotar looked back at Floyd.

“It would be an honor your Gnomeship.”

“Excellent! We’ll split them into two groups based on destination.” With that Floyd headed through the crowd sorting the patrons. Brotar gave his head a final shake and stumped over to the entry room. The same woman was behind the little antique desk, still looking bright and alert despite the late hour.

“Excuse me Miss,” Brotar addressed her, “I’m going to help some of these people home. Would you hold my room until I return? It may be late depending on how far away they live.”

She gave him a warm smile. “Of course we’ll hold your room. You are welcome to come right back to the Jolly Badger, and never mind the hour.”

Brotar nodded his thanks and turned to see a group of about fifteen people looking at him expectantly through bleary eyes.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

**********************************


By the time his small group and dwindled down to five, the cool night air had chase the last wisps of alcohol from Brotar’s mind. The city had torches hung in street intersections, rather than illuminating the city at night it actually made it worse as the shadows and darkness in the alleys deepened. The harsh yellow light of the torches kept Brotar and his small band’s eyes from being able to fully adjust to the night. None-the-less, Brotar was still able to spot a pair of men trailing his small group. Reaching down he drew a small dagger from his belt and passed it to one of the men with him. The laborer looked worried but accepted the dagger without a word. His group continued through the streets, the pair of men slowly closing the gap behind them. Finally Brotar halted the group in an intersection, under a ring of torchlight, and turned to confront the men. Brotar drew his flanged mace and held it firmly in his hand but kept his shield at his side. His thoughts briefly flitted to the powerful axe strapped to his back but he rejected using it; not only was it not his to use, but it was wrapped tightly in oiled leather. The two men paused for a moment, assessing the situation. They gave each other a long look, and then each drew shortswords.

Brotar stepped forward with practiced ease and brought his shield up. One of the men rushed forward, sword swinging wildly. Brotar calmly caught the clumsy attack on his shield and popped the would be robber in the forehead with his mace. The front of his skull collapsed and the man fell to the ground twitching with blood running out his nose. Brotar calmly shifted his gaze to the other man, ignoring the scared noises of his charges. This brigand came in more cautiously, testing Brotar’s defenses with measured strikes. One of his attacks slipped past Brotar’s shield and drew blood, but Brotar used the opening to clip him on the shoulder, shattering the joint and causing his sword arm to fall uselessly at his side. Wincing in agony the attacker turned and fled down the street. Brotar dropped his mace and in one smooth motion drew and threw his throwing hammer at the escaping robber. The hammer caught him in the back of the head in a spray of blood and gore. Brotar turned to his charges; they were huddled against the wall of a building eyeing him fearfully.

“It’s ok,” Brotar said soothingly, “Let’s just get you all home.” Giving them a moment to compose themselves he went over to the dead attackers. Brotar flipped one of the bodies over with his toe and noticed a black mark under the collar of the dead man’s shirt. Bending over he pulled the shirt aside revealing a black hand shaped tattoo on the body’s chest. Standing up, he went to the next body; it had the tattoo as well. Brotar picked up his throwing hammer and wiped it off on his victim’s shirt. Hmm. That can’t be good. He thought to himself. Shrugging he walked back to the townsfolk and lead them off through the city.

******************************************


It was late when Brotar got back to the Jolly Badger, but instead of going up to his room he headed into the tap room and bellied up to the bar. He was the only one in the room besides the bar man, the same spry old man who had manned the bar earlier. The man was sleepily wiping down the bar but still managed a friendly smile as the young dwarf slid into one of the barstools. Brotar returned the friendly look an placed several gold coins on the bar.

“I’ve got a question.” Brotar stated. The old man’s eyes went down to the coinage and his smile shrank a little.

“Ask away.” He replied, still friendly but with a cautious edge of seriousness.

“What do you know about men who have a tattoo here” Brotar pointed to his chest, “of a black hand?”

“Not enough to make you happy, but too much for my liking. That is the mark of the local thieves’ guild. They call themselves the Black Glove. They are particularly violent, but not as vicious as the were-rat guild that was in town a few months ago. Why do you ask?”

“I killed two of them tonight. They attacked a group of your patrons I was escorting home. I think they were trying to rob us.”

“Well I’m glad you protected my customers. I just hope there are no repercussions. One last thing you should know, the Black Gloves travel in groups of three, five, and ten. Never two.”

There was a moment of silence as Brotar stewed that over. Finally he shrugged and said, “Well I’m for bed. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight master dwarf.”

Brotar walked wearily out of the tap room and went up the stairs. He entered the room that had been assigned to him and gave it a cursory glance. A stout bed frame held a firm mattress covered by a thick quilt. On the floor next to the bed was a simple wooden chest, and over the chest was a window whose wooden shutters were closed and latched. Brotar turned, shut the door, and set the wooden board that served as the door’s lock in place. He stumbled over to the bed, shedding gear and clothing as he went, when he noticed a small pouch placed on the bed’s pillow. He picked it up and spilled its contents into his fleshy hand. A good amount of coin fell out followed by a piece of paper. Curious, Brotar examined the paper; it was a note that read:

Thanks for doing as I asked. Here’s some money by way of thanks. Good luck taking Guy’s axe to Havern, tell him I said hey.
--Floyd

Chuckling Brotar threw himself on the bed and let sleep overtake him. Tomorrow he would leave Dreia and continue north to Eveningmist.