Half Empty or Half Full?

[ToxinDoctor]

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.”

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!”

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.”

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.

[ToxinDoctor]

Strangely, the blasts of the Stormpeaks' wind seemed more comforting than the howl of Icecrown's and less cold, though still quite chilling. The dwarf's face was streaked with tears as he stood in the center of Frosthold's courtyard, peering at the pyre that was built for his son. He was grateful to the Vanguard for allowing him the day to see his son off into the afterlife, though the luxury was bittersweet. Pulling his cloak tighter around his frame, the dwarf continued to stare somberly up at his fallen offspring as Frostborn kin continued to douse the wood beneath him in flammable oils.

Fetyr's remains laid on stacks of woven branches with his arms crossed over his chest. On either side were the weapons he last grasped before his death and on his breast laid a mithril pocket watch that his father had placed, being somewhat of an heirloom passed down through their family for four generations at least. His clothes were made of cloth as fine as could be afforded, for the warrior could not be burned with his armor. The watch and his weapons would be placed with the ashes when buried after.

As the grief-stricken father wept, he felt a coldness growing inside him, something he didn't expect could happen when one was already in such a freezing place. Those around him, being the regulars in the camp and the few Valiance soldiers who accompanied him, shed no tears for his son, realizing that he was just another fighter who fell in the war. Although their sentiments were not particularly this blunt, it was what kept them from weeping, half of them not even aware of the name belonging to the deceased. Finally, the pyre was finished in preparation and Fimgaar was handed a torch.

“May the powers that be watch over ye, my dear son. As you have passed on, let it be known tha' a part of me, if not all has passed along with ye, “ the dwarf raised the torch in his hand, stepping further up towards the pyre, “Eternal rest for ye, my boy. I only wish that I could have been allowed the chance to switch places with ye!”

With that, the dwarf ignited the altar and stepped away, his eyes overflowing with tears. Sorrow engulfed him just as the flames before the funeral procession did Fetyr, ushering him on into whatever afterlife there was to be found for the young dwarf. Fimgaar continued to sob through the duration of fire's life, his sounds of lamentation all but lost to the roar of blaze and the answering shriek of the mountain wind. After his son's body was exhumed, the ashes were gathered, placed with the charred belongings and buried on the southern face of the mountain. Approaching his fellow warrior, one of the Valiance soldiers, also happening to be a dwarf, put a hand on Fimgaar's shoulder.

“Come now, lad, we best get back. I'll buy you're a couple pints to drown the sorrow, “ he offered, unaware to the consequences this would lead to in the long-run.

Agreeing, Fimgaar turned to follow the soldiers to the nearby flight master. Along the way, he was hailed by several apologies and concerns by those in the funeral procession. Though he knew they meant well, he felt no comfort in their words, each mention of his boy driving his grief to another level. By the time he had returned to Crusader's Pinnacle, he was more than willing to accept the alcohol provided to him, spending enough to afford himself three more tankards to accompany what was offered to him. And so was the start to the warrior's downfall and the reason he would one day be lying crumpled on the floor of Ironforge.