12-23-2010, 06:55 PM
This story begins, humbly as any other, under the mountain in the dwarven capital of Ironforge. There, among the stout folk and there cousins, the gnomes, a dwarf was doing what his people tend to do best. By that, I mean he was drinking. Fimgaar Proudrune was the fellow's name, a man down on his luck after being dismissed from the conflicts that raged on at the cold roof of the world. He sat then at a table placed at the second floor of the taproom known as Bruuk's Corner, surrounded by half a dozen empty tankards that he had previously drained. Finishing his seventh pint, he slammed the mug down on the table in front of him and let loose a loud belch.
Swaying in his seat, he found himself quite inebriated, as was part of his routine for the past few months of his life after his return from Northrend. Since coming back, he had wasted his money on drink day after day until he was left without home or frankly anything of much value. In addition to his poor financial state, the dwarf often forgot to bathe, leaving his once glorious, golden-orange beard dirty, uncombed, and stained with booze. His clothes didn't put him in much positive light either, including a pair of patched up trousers, an aged belt just barely able to keep them hitched up, and raggedy leather boots that had seen more than what would be considered their fair share of wear. Such a sight was he that many of his kin shunned him, a few even feeling ashamed that he was allowed to walk the halls of Ironforge in such a condition, let alone frequent its taverns.
Though not quite an excellent idea, Fimgaar rose from his chair in order to get another drink. Staggering his way to the stairs, he had to lean against the wall so as not to fall down the stone steps. Thankfully, instead of taking a tumble, he only fell back on his rump a few times, eventually making it successfully to the bar's bottom floor. A few Ironforge guards who were off-duty and had come to the place for a cold one during their break watched this spectacle with both a mix of humor and shame. One called out to the dwarf as he shambled towards the counter.
“Can't hold yer sodding drink? What th' fel's a matter with ye?†the guard jeered as his companion chuckled.
Fimgaar shook his head, the low lantern light of the taproom glowing off his bald head as he leaned onto the counter. Bruuk Barleybeard, the barkeeper who owned the place peered at the heavily drunken dwarf through his left eye, the other covered by a patch, much the same as Fimgaar's right eye. The tavern keep had known him for quite a while, not only from the other dwarf's recent months of binge drinking in the place. Because he was a veteran from more than a few battles, Fimgaar was allowed a large tab which the drunk had recently been amassing quite a sizeable dept upon. That, however, was soon to be changed.
“'Nother pint of ale, me brother!†Fimgaar ordered across the counter in a tone louder than needed, due to his drunken state.
Shaking his head, Bruuk said, “I can' do tha' fer ye, Fimgaar. Ye've been comin' in here every day since ye got back, getting' wasted til ye can' see straight. I already know they threw ye out from Stonefire's place cuz ye were drivin' away the customers. I wouldn' do that to ye, bu' I won't be givin' ye anymore drinks until ye find a way to pay yer tab.â€Â
Scowling at the man, Fimgaar rose up in a drunken rage, his voice escalating, “Ye don' know what I've gone through, Barleybeard! If ye losht what I've losht, ye wouldn' be so quick to deny me a drink!â€Â
Drawing back from the dwarf, Bruuk motioned the guards at the nearby table over, “Yer son was a good boy, I know that Fimgaar, but you're being unreasonable. Either ye get out or I'll have the men throw ye out.â€Â
At this, both of the guards were happy to carry out the latter after the drunk had raised up another ruckus. Tossing him into the street of the Military Ward, the guard who had taunted him before spat on him.
“Nothin' we ken do from keeping' ye out of the streets but I'd rather not see yer face under the mountain, wash-out, “ he said to Fimgaar with the other guard agreeing after him. The two then turned and went back into Bruuk's Corner to finish their drinks, quite annoyed at having to handle the man during their time off.
Fimgaar laid on the floor of the Ward for several moments while in his drunken stupor. He wondered to himself how much better it would have been if he were allowed to trade places with his late son. Feeling the cold stone beneath his body, the dwarf was suddenly reminded of the chill of the Storm Peaks on the day he was allowed brief leave for his son's funeral. Immediately, his thoughts returned to that place far up in the mountains where the agony of his grief stung worse than any wound he endured before.
Swaying in his seat, he found himself quite inebriated, as was part of his routine for the past few months of his life after his return from Northrend. Since coming back, he had wasted his money on drink day after day until he was left without home or frankly anything of much value. In addition to his poor financial state, the dwarf often forgot to bathe, leaving his once glorious, golden-orange beard dirty, uncombed, and stained with booze. His clothes didn't put him in much positive light either, including a pair of patched up trousers, an aged belt just barely able to keep them hitched up, and raggedy leather boots that had seen more than what would be considered their fair share of wear. Such a sight was he that many of his kin shunned him, a few even feeling ashamed that he was allowed to walk the halls of Ironforge in such a condition, let alone frequent its taverns.
Though not quite an excellent idea, Fimgaar rose from his chair in order to get another drink. Staggering his way to the stairs, he had to lean against the wall so as not to fall down the stone steps. Thankfully, instead of taking a tumble, he only fell back on his rump a few times, eventually making it successfully to the bar's bottom floor. A few Ironforge guards who were off-duty and had come to the place for a cold one during their break watched this spectacle with both a mix of humor and shame. One called out to the dwarf as he shambled towards the counter.
“Can't hold yer sodding drink? What th' fel's a matter with ye?†the guard jeered as his companion chuckled.
Fimgaar shook his head, the low lantern light of the taproom glowing off his bald head as he leaned onto the counter. Bruuk Barleybeard, the barkeeper who owned the place peered at the heavily drunken dwarf through his left eye, the other covered by a patch, much the same as Fimgaar's right eye. The tavern keep had known him for quite a while, not only from the other dwarf's recent months of binge drinking in the place. Because he was a veteran from more than a few battles, Fimgaar was allowed a large tab which the drunk had recently been amassing quite a sizeable dept upon. That, however, was soon to be changed.
“'Nother pint of ale, me brother!†Fimgaar ordered across the counter in a tone louder than needed, due to his drunken state.
Shaking his head, Bruuk said, “I can' do tha' fer ye, Fimgaar. Ye've been comin' in here every day since ye got back, getting' wasted til ye can' see straight. I already know they threw ye out from Stonefire's place cuz ye were drivin' away the customers. I wouldn' do that to ye, bu' I won't be givin' ye anymore drinks until ye find a way to pay yer tab.â€Â
Scowling at the man, Fimgaar rose up in a drunken rage, his voice escalating, “Ye don' know what I've gone through, Barleybeard! If ye losht what I've losht, ye wouldn' be so quick to deny me a drink!â€Â
Drawing back from the dwarf, Bruuk motioned the guards at the nearby table over, “Yer son was a good boy, I know that Fimgaar, but you're being unreasonable. Either ye get out or I'll have the men throw ye out.â€Â
At this, both of the guards were happy to carry out the latter after the drunk had raised up another ruckus. Tossing him into the street of the Military Ward, the guard who had taunted him before spat on him.
“Nothin' we ken do from keeping' ye out of the streets but I'd rather not see yer face under the mountain, wash-out, “ he said to Fimgaar with the other guard agreeing after him. The two then turned and went back into Bruuk's Corner to finish their drinks, quite annoyed at having to handle the man during their time off.
Fimgaar laid on the floor of the Ward for several moments while in his drunken stupor. He wondered to himself how much better it would have been if he were allowed to trade places with his late son. Feeling the cold stone beneath his body, the dwarf was suddenly reminded of the chill of the Storm Peaks on the day he was allowed brief leave for his son's funeral. Immediately, his thoughts returned to that place far up in the mountains where the agony of his grief stung worse than any wound he endured before.