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Brummig der Sieben
Feb. 22nd, 2020 09:44 amReposting this for the players in my D&D game.
The inn was a large one, as befitted a prosperous merchant town at the meeting point of two rivers and numerous roads. Inside the crowded common room, voices were raised in a dozen tongues, calling for beer, food, or just in celebration.
Watse had noticed the dwarf while singing an old ribald ballad from a tabletop. The dwarf sat alone at a table, scowling at the levity around him in between long pulls on his tankard. “There’s a story there,” Watse mused, “and tonight I’m going to learn it.” Taking some of the gold his audience had gifted him, he bought a small keg from the bent old woman tending the bar before carefully making his way through the jostling crowd to where the dwarf sat, still glaring.
“May I sit, my lord?” Dwarves were notoriously picky about status; best to err on the side of caution.
The dwarf grunted, saw the stout barrel Watse was carrying and shrugged. “Sit as you will, although I am no lord. You may call me Brummig der Sieben.”
Watse bowed as he sat, placing the keg and his cup on the table. “My pleasure, Brummig. I am Watse of Isinius, a teller of tales, singer of songs, and a fool of fools.”
Brummig rubbed his large nose. “Singing. I can’t stand singing anymore. Loathe it.”
This wasn’t going well, Watse thought as he poured himself an ale. Another tack was needed. “So, no singing for you. Fair enough. Might I ask what brings you to this place at this time?”
Brummig took a deep pull of his beer and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his red tunic. He stared for a moment at the fire roaring on the heath.
“Fine, Watse of Isinius, professional fool. You shall have my tale. I am on a quest. I seek my six lost clan brothers. Well, five brothers, and one who we adopted as a mascot. He made the others laugh. I have never been one for merriment.”
“A tragedy indeed, losing those close to you. May I ask what led to this sundering? Was it war? A plague?” Watse pulled a scrap of parchment and a bit of charcoal from his bag and started writing.
“War? Do you think a war would cause me to forget my oaths? Stupid humans, it is you who run at the sound of battle! No, it was our own stupidity that caused this pain.” Brummig drained his mug and Watse was quick to refill it.
“Two moon’s march east of here is my home, carved into the Black Rock Mountains. They were rich in gold and mithril, and my clan thrived and served the Underking faithfully. But our greed was unbound by caution. My brothers and I were sent to reopen a mine in the lands controlled by a woman, a sorceress of some power. The mine was rich in gems. . . diamonds as big as your fist! We were ordered to work in secrecy, hidden in a glen. The six of us prospered, then we made our first mistake. We allowed Blöd to join us.”
“Really?” Watse asked. “Who was Blöd? Another dwarf?”
“No, not a dwarf. We never figured out what he was, as he didn’t speak. Hairless, mute, but as I said he entertained my brothers and did passable work. But then came our biggest mistake. We let the girl in.”
Brummig gulped his beer like he was dying of thirst. After a belch that rattled the table, he continued.
“We should have killed her. That was my say on the matter. Our job was to work in secret. But I was shouted down. Arzt, our leader, said we needed to give her shelter. But she freely admitted to being on the run from the lady sorceress. She was her kin! Of course, the sorceress tracked her down! We return from work to find ourselves exposed, with some noble’s son rescuing the girl, and taking her to wife. They lived happily ever after, or so I’m told.”
“What of the sorceress?” asked Watse, sharpening his charcoal.
“Fell off a cliff. The others said she died, but I didn’t trust their judgment.”
“But I don’t understand. The girl was rescued, the sorceress defeated -- why were you and your brothers separated?”
“Because we failed, you fool! Not a tenday past the fall of the foul lady, and there are human soldiers at our mine, at our home, and the prince’s father laying claim to the entire area. We were marched back to our hearth hall in disgrace. The Underking cursed us and took our clan names from us. Blöd was so terrified, he ran from the halls before we could stop him. The rest of us were put under a spell that made us travel away from both the Black Rocks and each other for 20 years. That time has ended. I will find my brothers, and we shall regain our honor. That is my story, Watse of Isinius. Dwarves do not beg easily, but I beg you to spread it far and wide. I am done here.”
With that, he drained the last of his beer, pulled a ragged brown stocking cap over his grey hair, and left the hall. Watse watched him go in amazement before frantically writing the last few lines of the story. He picked up the now-empty keg and carried it back over to the crone tending the bar. She really was ancient, bent back and a horribly swollen eye.
“I see you spent all night talking to that sad little dwarf,” she cackled. “Get a good story out of him?”
“Oh, yes. . . the Tragic Tale of Brummig der Sieben and His Lost Brothers.” Watse was already thinking in titles.
“You do know that’s not his name, yes, dearie? His name was taken from him. Even so, no dwarf would tell a human his real name unless they were bound by oath. Oh, don’t look so surprised, I’ve been watching that one for a long time.”
“Then what was the name he gave me?” Watse spluttered.
“A quest name. Combination of the nickname he used with human folk and a reminder of his quest. Brummig der Sieben means ‘Grumpy of the Seven.’”
She reached under the bar and brought out a shiny red fruit.
“Apple?”
The inn was a large one, as befitted a prosperous merchant town at the meeting point of two rivers and numerous roads. Inside the crowded common room, voices were raised in a dozen tongues, calling for beer, food, or just in celebration.
Watse had noticed the dwarf while singing an old ribald ballad from a tabletop. The dwarf sat alone at a table, scowling at the levity around him in between long pulls on his tankard. “There’s a story there,” Watse mused, “and tonight I’m going to learn it.” Taking some of the gold his audience had gifted him, he bought a small keg from the bent old woman tending the bar before carefully making his way through the jostling crowd to where the dwarf sat, still glaring.
“May I sit, my lord?” Dwarves were notoriously picky about status; best to err on the side of caution.
The dwarf grunted, saw the stout barrel Watse was carrying and shrugged. “Sit as you will, although I am no lord. You may call me Brummig der Sieben.”
Watse bowed as he sat, placing the keg and his cup on the table. “My pleasure, Brummig. I am Watse of Isinius, a teller of tales, singer of songs, and a fool of fools.”
Brummig rubbed his large nose. “Singing. I can’t stand singing anymore. Loathe it.”
This wasn’t going well, Watse thought as he poured himself an ale. Another tack was needed. “So, no singing for you. Fair enough. Might I ask what brings you to this place at this time?”
Brummig took a deep pull of his beer and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his red tunic. He stared for a moment at the fire roaring on the heath.
“Fine, Watse of Isinius, professional fool. You shall have my tale. I am on a quest. I seek my six lost clan brothers. Well, five brothers, and one who we adopted as a mascot. He made the others laugh. I have never been one for merriment.”
“A tragedy indeed, losing those close to you. May I ask what led to this sundering? Was it war? A plague?” Watse pulled a scrap of parchment and a bit of charcoal from his bag and started writing.
“War? Do you think a war would cause me to forget my oaths? Stupid humans, it is you who run at the sound of battle! No, it was our own stupidity that caused this pain.” Brummig drained his mug and Watse was quick to refill it.
“Two moon’s march east of here is my home, carved into the Black Rock Mountains. They were rich in gold and mithril, and my clan thrived and served the Underking faithfully. But our greed was unbound by caution. My brothers and I were sent to reopen a mine in the lands controlled by a woman, a sorceress of some power. The mine was rich in gems. . . diamonds as big as your fist! We were ordered to work in secrecy, hidden in a glen. The six of us prospered, then we made our first mistake. We allowed Blöd to join us.”
“Really?” Watse asked. “Who was Blöd? Another dwarf?”
“No, not a dwarf. We never figured out what he was, as he didn’t speak. Hairless, mute, but as I said he entertained my brothers and did passable work. But then came our biggest mistake. We let the girl in.”
Brummig gulped his beer like he was dying of thirst. After a belch that rattled the table, he continued.
“We should have killed her. That was my say on the matter. Our job was to work in secret. But I was shouted down. Arzt, our leader, said we needed to give her shelter. But she freely admitted to being on the run from the lady sorceress. She was her kin! Of course, the sorceress tracked her down! We return from work to find ourselves exposed, with some noble’s son rescuing the girl, and taking her to wife. They lived happily ever after, or so I’m told.”
“What of the sorceress?” asked Watse, sharpening his charcoal.
“Fell off a cliff. The others said she died, but I didn’t trust their judgment.”
“But I don’t understand. The girl was rescued, the sorceress defeated -- why were you and your brothers separated?”
“Because we failed, you fool! Not a tenday past the fall of the foul lady, and there are human soldiers at our mine, at our home, and the prince’s father laying claim to the entire area. We were marched back to our hearth hall in disgrace. The Underking cursed us and took our clan names from us. Blöd was so terrified, he ran from the halls before we could stop him. The rest of us were put under a spell that made us travel away from both the Black Rocks and each other for 20 years. That time has ended. I will find my brothers, and we shall regain our honor. That is my story, Watse of Isinius. Dwarves do not beg easily, but I beg you to spread it far and wide. I am done here.”
With that, he drained the last of his beer, pulled a ragged brown stocking cap over his grey hair, and left the hall. Watse watched him go in amazement before frantically writing the last few lines of the story. He picked up the now-empty keg and carried it back over to the crone tending the bar. She really was ancient, bent back and a horribly swollen eye.
“I see you spent all night talking to that sad little dwarf,” she cackled. “Get a good story out of him?”
“Oh, yes. . . the Tragic Tale of Brummig der Sieben and His Lost Brothers.” Watse was already thinking in titles.
“You do know that’s not his name, yes, dearie? His name was taken from him. Even so, no dwarf would tell a human his real name unless they were bound by oath. Oh, don’t look so surprised, I’ve been watching that one for a long time.”
“Then what was the name he gave me?” Watse spluttered.
“A quest name. Combination of the nickname he used with human folk and a reminder of his quest. Brummig der Sieben means ‘Grumpy of the Seven.’”
She reached under the bar and brought out a shiny red fruit.
“Apple?”
