Loud Dwarves

Thelsamar was supposed to be a quiet stop.

One night. A hot meal. A bed that doesn't creak. That was the plan. I've been walking for nearly a week and my feet have opinions about every mile of it. The road through Dun Morogh was cold and the tunnel was worse — all echoes and dripping water and the constant feeling that something was watching from the dark.

So when I saw the lights of Thelsamar through the trees, I almost wept with relief.

Then I opened the inn door.

I have never heard so much noise from so few people. There were maybe eight dwarves in the common room, but they made enough sound for eighty. Every one of them was shouting. Every one of them was laughing. Every one of them had a mug in one hand and a story in the other.

I found the smallest table in the darkest corner and tried to disappear into my stew.

It didn't work. The noise found me anyway.

"—and Arden's boot came clean off! Clean off, I tell ye!"

Roaring laughter. Someone pounding the table so hard the mugs jumped.

"I was not screamin'!"

"Ye absolutely were!"

I tried to focus on my food, but it was impossible. The stories kept coming. Something about a shadow boar the size of a pony. Something about a fishing contest that ended in a brawl. Something about a goat. I still don't understand the goat story.

One dwarf in particular caught my attention. Not because he was the loudest — though he was — but because there was something different about him. While the others competed for the spotlight, he sat back and watched. His beard was the most impressive of the bunch, thick and dark and clearly never met a comb. His laugh came easy, but his eyes moved around the room like he was cataloging everything.

At one point I heard him mention a black boar. Not as part of a joke. Just a quiet observation to the dwarf next to him.

"Saw it myself up in the hills. Black as a moonless night. Tusks like daggers."

The others laughed and called him a liar. He just grinned and took another drink.

I thought: either they're all very drunk, or dwarves are significantly stranger than I ever imagined.

Probably both.

The innkeep — a stout woman with arms like hams and the patience of a saint — caught me watching them. She refilled my water and gave me a knowing look.

"They're always like this," she said. "Ye get used to it."

"Do you?"

She thought about it.

"No."

The loud one with the beard left before I did. He tossed a few coins on the table, waved to his friends, and walked out into the night like he had somewhere important to be. Or nowhere at all. It was hard to tell with him.

I didn't think about him again until much later.

In the morning, the inn was quiet. The dwarves were gone, scattered back to whatever it is dwarves do when they're not drinking. I packed my things and headed north toward the pass.

Thelsamar is a strange place. Beautiful, in its way. The lake catches the morning light like polished silver. But I won't miss the noise.

At least, that's what I told myself as I walked.