Beers and Beards

Book 2: Chapter 23: Flambè de Dwarf

“OOOOH!!! HE’S GOING TO FEEL THAT IN HIS ANKLES IN THE MORNING!”

“AND THE RUSTY BATTLEAXE REALLY PUT THE HURT INTO THE FICKLE FIG!”

“KEBAB CUISINE HAS PURCHASED CHICKPEAS, PARSLEY, TOMATOES, AND CILANTRO! WHAT COULD SHE BE MAKING!?”

“IT LOOKS LIKE THE THIRSTY GOAT AND THE HUNGRY DUCKLING HAVE CORNERED THE SPICE MARKET! WHAT A CLEVER PLAN, LET’S SEE IF THEY CAN AVOID RETRIBUTION FROM THE OTHER ANGRY CHEFS!”

Our small knot of supporters surged to our feet at that one.

“Brilliant Plan, Bran!” I cried.

“Ha ha!” Aqua cheered. “He’s going to win this for sure!”

*MEEEEEEEHHH!!!* [Translated from Primma Donna Goat] “Show them your mettle, my servant!”

Penelope nipped at my beard. Ok, maybe she was actually demanding food. I passed her a goat snack.

A chorus of laughter engulfed the arena as the dwarves in the dungeon supplies section started fighting over the remaining spices. In the meantime Bran made his way through the rest of the market without incident. He filled his sack with a bunch of different vegetables and then snuck out towards the general goods.

The announcer announced all the while. “AND THE THIRSTY GOAT HAS PURCHASED ERDROOT, MUSHROOMS, LEMONS, GREEN ONIONS, AND DUNGEON GREENS! WHAT COULD HE BE MAKING? MOST OF THE GOOD MEATS ARE ALREADY GONE! HE STILL HASN’T MADE IT TO THE MEAT MARKET, SO COULD IT BE A VEGETARIAN DISH? OR IS HE PLANNING A MORE DIRECT APPROACH?”

“Do ya have any idea what he’s makin’!?” Balin yelled at me over the sound of the crowd.

I pursed my lips in consideration. “There’s no way it’s a vegetarian dish, that would be sure to lose; too many dwarves are picky about their vegetables. It’s got to be… a chicken or fish dish. Maybe onion and mushroom chicken? Or it could be Mushrooms Neptune - I mean Mushrooms Aaron.”

I’d taught him the signature appy of my favourite Canadian steakhouse on a lark, but he’d really fallen in love with it and made it his own.

“What’s that?” Johnsson asked from over my shoulder.

“A fish dish. Remember those mushrooms filled with cave crab? It’ll stand out, and it’s really tasty.” If that was what he was doing, it was a great plan.

“Oooh, I did quite like those,” Moony said affectionately.

Bran ran into the House of Meat’s chef, and the two of them exchanged words. Then, quick as thought, Bran nailed the gnome with his frying pan and was looting his shopping bag. We all jumped up and began waving our posters and signs and shouting our support. He couldn’t hear us in there, the announcer had said outside sound was mostly filtered out, but maybe he would look over and spot us.

“AND THE THIRSTY GOAT NOW HAS THE BEST CUTS OF MEAT IN THE MARKET!! IF THAT WAS PLANNED, IT WAS A GREAT PLAN!”

I looked over at Opal, who was clenching her fists and straining her jaw. Most of the nobles were either disinterested or uncaring. A few seemed invested, and one of them even had a bottle of Ass-Blaster in his hand. He was standing with one foot on the hand-rail, shouting and waving his arms in joy and anger. I realized with a start that I actually recognized him. He was one of the heavy bettors from the Barck Beer Brawl. The other nobles around him were slowly backing out of the blast zone.

Speaking of which.

“Did any of you bet anything on this? I didn’t have time.” I asked the crew.

“I put a couple gold on Bran.” Johnsson put up his hand.

“I spent all ma spare change on some new grimoires. No gold left fer bettin’." Richter shrugged.

"That may be a good idea…" John muttered.

“I didn’t, did we need to?” Aqua asked.

I sighed. “It would have been helpful, we’re almost broke after buying all those new tanks.”

“What!?” Annie screeched, then caught the twinkle in my eye. “YOU!!!”

Aqua and I laughed.

“Stop teasin’ Annie, Pete.” Balin said, but one side of his handlebar moustache was higher than the other.

I rolled my eyes. “Fiiiine. Y’know, this is fun, but it feels weird. Shouldn’t a cooking competition mostly be about cookin’?”

“Well, it is entertaining. Some weirdo noble in Kinshasa probably invented it. To watch the [Artisans] who’re better dwarves than they’ll ever be get all banged up.” Johnsson grumbled. “The judges’ll make sure tha best chef still wins.”

It actually reminded me of a Canadian cooking show called Cutthroat Kitchen. The grocery rush, sabotage, and other features were quite similar. Perhaps the designer loved wrestling and wanted some of that bombast in the Octamillenial contests? Or …

Down below, Bran had completed his purchases in the general goods and was making his way out of the market.

“Look! That House of Meats dinkleberry is back!” Markus pointed. “And he’s brought friends!!!”

We all sat at attention at that, and a few others began to notice the tableau.

“OOOH, THE THIRSTY GOAT’S LUCK HAS RUN OUT! HE MAY BE RELIEVED OF SOME OF THOSE SPICES IN JUST A MOMENT! THE FICKLE FIG HAS CHARGED HIM, AND - WAIT, WHAT’S - “

There was a *BOOM* and a flash of light as a fireball exploded beside Bran. The crowd screamed, then grew silent as a plume of smoke rose above the market. My poster slipped out of frozen fingers as Bran was clouded by clouds and dust. Then another flash of light spurred the crowd to raucous cheers.

“IT LOOKS LIKE ONE OF THE CHEFS IS A TALENTED MAGE! KEBAB CUISINE HAS TAKEN COMMAND OF THE SCENE!! I HOPE SHE’S AS GOOD AT COOKING FOOD AS SHE IS AT COOKING THE COMPETITION! THE THIRSTY GOAT IS DOOOOWN!!!! THE JUDGES MAY COUNT THAT AS A PENALTY THOUGH!!!”

The dust cleared to reveal Bran lying on the ground, his opened sack beside him. His back was black and charred, and the hair on his head was smoking.

“BRAN!!!” Aqua screamed, launching herself over the railing. She simply bounced off an invisible wall and fell back into the stands.

“Is he alive!?” I shouted, rising to my feet. Penelope fell off my lap to the ground with an angry *meeeh*.

“He’s a dwarf!” John grumbled anxiously. “And he’s got [Regeneration]. He’ll be fine, but the question is… will he wake up in time?”

“OOOH!!! AND THE JUDGES HAVE GIVEN KEBAB CUISINE A PENALTY FOR MAGIC MISUSE!! SHE CAN’T COOK FOR THE NEXT HOUR! NO WIDE AREA SPELLS ALLOWED!”

At least half of the twenty-four chefs made it out of the market and started on their dishes.

I looked across the arena to the noble boxes. Opal was standing, her fists gripping the rail. Her face had gone white, and she was screaming Bran’s name as well. Her mother was sitting relaxed beside her, a smug look on her face.

I Was SudDeNly STrUcK by a StrOng need ta wIpE it oFFa her FaCE wit\' an AxE. Ta tEAch her ta MESS WIT\' ONE O\' MINE. My hands grasped for a weapon, my vision went red with rage, and I felt a battle-cry rise in my throat. It was only with extreme effort that I tamped the feeling back down.

I gasped for breath, sweat suddenly streaming down my face. Where had that come from!? There wasn’t a violent bone in my body!

No, there hadn’t been a violent bone in Peter Phillip’s body. My dwarven body was something else altogether. Was this how some dwarves felt all the time!? It explained soooo much.

A minute passed, then two, then ten, then twenty. More and more of the competitors made it out of the market and began cooking.

The announcer called a few more points of interest, but we barely heard him, our attention rooted to one spot.

“THE HOUSE OF MEATS HAS LEFT THE MARKET! IT LOOKS LIKE HE COULDN’T HANDLE KEBAB CUISINE’S HEAT!”

“THE RUSTY BATTLEAXE HAS MANAGED TO INJURE THE HUNGRY DUCKLING, BUT SHE’S MADE IT OUT OF THE MARKET AND IS SAFE AT HER PREP STAND!”

“He’s not moving!” Aqua wailed when Bran became the sole chef left in the market.

I raised by fist and began to chant Bran\'s name in a fixed cadence. “Bran! COME ON, BRAN! BRAN! BRAN!” Who cared if he couldn\'t hear us? Take my psychic energy and get up ya black bearded bravo!

Aqua joined me, followed by Balin, Annie, and the rest of the crew in short order. Our calls drowned out the rest of the audience around us.

I grabbed one of the bigger signs that simply said “GO BRAN” then jumped up onto the rail and faced the crowd. I held it aloft and waved, then resumed the chant. “BRAN! BRAN!”

First our neighbours, then a few others, then a moment later our entire side of the arena began to chant Bran’s name. Most probably didn’t know who he was, but I spotted some of our regulars here and there, and dwarves were always game for a good cheer.

“BRAN! BRAN! BRAN! BRAN! BRAN!”

Stat Increased: [Charisma]!

Your charisma has increased by 1! Your new charisma is 16.2!

The announcer noticed and pointed us out. “THE CROWD HAS BEGUN TO CHEER FOR THE THIRSTY GOAT’S BRAN HURLER!! HE\'S STILL DOWN AFTER KEBAB CUISINE\'S ATTACK. HE MAY HEAR THEM THROUGH THE SOUND WARDS, BUT WILL IT BE ENOUGH! THE HEALERS ASSURE ME HE IS HEALING, BUT WILL HE MAKE IT IN TIME!?”

The cheering continued. I felt my voice grow hoarse, but endured. After a minute or two, the chant began to die.

Suddenly, down below, Bran stirred, and the whole arena began calling his name. Even some of the stuffed shirts had gotten into the swing of things, and I spotted Opal’s father among them, pumping his arm with each cheer. Her mother looked like she’d chewed a whole lemon.

“BRAN! BRAN! BRAN!”

Then the small blackened figure stood, and the crowd went wild.

—

In the market

The first thing Bran felt when he returned to consciousness was pain. Not like nicking his finger on a knife, or getting punched in the face by an angry customer, but the searing burning agony of crisped flesh.

He forced himself to stand, then staggered. His limbs felt wrong, like they were being pulled by strings. He stubbornly forced them to move; he had a meal to cook. He felt a roaring in his ears, like the sound of his name being called. His dwarven blood thudded in his veins, and it wouldn’t allow him to stop until he was dead or his craft was complete.

He had a meal to cook.

He took one step, then another. There was a ringing in his ears, and he realized it was a notification.

*Bing!*

Milestone Gained!

You have shown dedication to your craft in the face of possible death and terrible pain!

Please accept one of the following:

Possible Milestone: [Resist Pain]!

You can shrug off pain that would lay low the strongest of mortals. Perception is reduced by 16 for the purpose of perceiving pain.

This Ability is always available.

Accept [Resist Pain]?

Yes/No

Possible Milestone: [Resist Fire]!

Armour cannot stop the burning heat of fire, but your body will! Your body becomes resistant but not immune to the burning heat of fire.

This Ability is always available.

Accept [Resist Fire]?

Yes/No

Possible Milestone: [Loved By Craft]!

The dedication you show your craft is returned eightfold. Decreases the chance of your craft failing for the next hour.

You can use this Ability twice per day.

Accept [Loved By Craft]?

Yes/No

Possible Milestone: [Perceive Ambush]!

You have been ambushed once! Never again! Gives an indication when you are about to be ambushed.

This Ability can be activated twice per day.

Accept [Percieve Ambush]?

Yes/No

Bran considered for a second, but the best choice was obvious. What other option could there be for one who loved his craft? He chose [Loved by Craft] with a crafty smile, and heaved a breath. His head must still be muddled, because he could still hear ringing in his ears. How long had he been out? What about the contest!? He felt a spike of fear; was it over!?

Then he looked up.

The entire arena was chanting in rhythm, their voices coming as though from a distance. The sound reverberated through his boots, over ten thousand voices combining like an earthquake that shook the very sand of the arena.

They were all shouting, Bran.

Bran.

Bran.

Every eye was on him, but he turned to look at the only dwarf who mattered.

Opal was standing on the railings, pushing against the barrier. Her mouth moved the same as everyone else. Tears streamed down her face, and he was ashamed that he’d made her worry so. He stood and gave her a fist closed salute to his chest. She clasped her hands against her mouth and then gave him a single tearful nod.

It was all he needed. Strength flooded his limbs and Bran swung about looking for his sack. Had it been taken? How screwed was he. There. Bran grabbed the bag where it lay just a metre away and opened it, his heart dreading what he would find.

The meat he’d stolen from House of Meats had vanished, along with most of the pepper and spices, but the rest of it was still there. Bran closed his eyes and thanked the Gods and Tilakatan that she hadn’t taken his entire life-line. All was not lost, and he owed her a favour, or a beating, maybe both. He only had one stop, and he could begin cooking. But did he have enough time?

The next minutes passed as though in slow motion as he raced through the market. An intimidated dwarven fishmonger handed over a pair of trout and some shredded crab for a mere gold, practically throwing the wrapped fish into his hands.

Each moment his [Regeneration] brought him closer to full health, and Bran was sprinting as he exited the market. He passed through the wards, and the sound hit him like a physical blow.

“BRAN! BRAN! BRAN!”

The voices changed to joyful cheering, and hats, shoes, dwarves, and goats were flung around in the crowd.

The announcer’s voice rang out. “AND BRAN HURLER MAKES IT OUT OF THE MARKET! IT LOOKS LIKE HE’S PLANNING A FISH PLATE! IS IT A CHANGE IN PLAN? WILL HE HAVE TIME TO FINISH? HE ONLY HAS ONE HOUR LEFT!!!”

One hour, it was enough.

Well, it was enough if he cut some corners, but then -

Bran spun his knife and grinned. “[Basic Knifework].”

He was good at cutting.