“W-what?” stammered Branden, wincing each time he heard the whip fall.

The Dwarf before him wiped his hands on his apron. “I asked what you’d like.” He smiled, waiting patiently. “First time in Narngund I take it?”

Still a little dazed, Branden nodded. “Yeah. Just got here.” Casually talking next to a man being flogged felt surreal.

“‘Everything has a price,’ as we say,” said the Dwarf with a small shrug of his broad shoulders. “Kelvin paid the price for cheating. You’ll see that sort of thing here.”

The whip stopped cracking. Kelvin moaned. With a flick of the wrist, Garlund tossed the bloody whip to the apron-clad Dwarf, who caught it deftly. A few red drops landed on Branden’s table. “Sorry about that, lad,” Garlund said. Branden turned to see Ongard casually gathering his winnings before departing with Garlund. They left Kelvin on the table with the few copper coins he hadn’t bet.

Looking back at his host, Branden nodded. “I’ve seen a flogging before, of course. But usually they’re given by the law and not the accuser.”

“What’s the point of getting the Arbiter involved? We all saw, and Kelvin himself agreed to the reduction. A good deal for everyone.” The Dwarf began to tap his right foot. “Can I get you something?”

“Oh. Right. A mug of ale, whatever the house specialty is, plus a room for the night. Nothing fancy.”

“Aye, just as well you don’t want something fancy, since we don’t have fancy. Welcome to the Crane’s Nest. Dando Thickwool, proprietor,” said the Dwarf as he offered his hand.

Branden clasped Dando’s calloused hand. “Branden Balond. Nice to meet you.”

“I’ll get your ale. Give me a shout if you need anything.” With that he strode off to another table.

Looking around, Branden cautiously eyed the other patrons. No sign remained of Kelvin; a little goblin in an apron muttered to himself as he scrubbed the table clean. A large crowd of Dwarves occupied three whole tables, merrily chatting about their smithing and downing huge quantities of beer, while others sat in twos and threes, often with humans. The high voices of Halflings rose as they mixed among almost all groups. In one shadowy corner, four men sat smoking long pipes, seemingly immune to even Halfling friendliness.

Branden shifted in his chair to better see the men. Tall, lean, and grim, each carried many visible scars. Stains and patches marred their rich fur and velvet; all bore long swords, shields, and various other weapons. Each wore a golden brooch in the shape of a tombstone. One of them caught Branden’s gaze and nudged his fellows; they all turned to glare. Branden hastily turned away. He almost missed Thuna.

Soon Dando returned with a mug of deep brown beer and a heavy iron key. “Who are those four in the corner?” Branden asked him, not looking at the men.

“Don’t ask me about other patrons and I’ll not answer any questions about you. There’s privacy in this establishment, even for the likes of them.”

A glare convinced Branden not to ask what Dando meant by that. “Then tell me, what’s bliss? There’s signs for it all about the city, and Kelvin seemed to miss it more than he feared a lashing.”

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Wringing his hands a bit, Dando nodded. “He does indeed. Your question is both easy and impossible to answer. Bliss is,” he broke off for a moment, eyes distant, “bliss is a bitter little pill. Bliss is the passport to the stars and the long, slippery slide to the abyss. Bliss is the scourge of Dwarvenkind and its crowning achievement.” He shook his head. “If you never try it, you won’t understand. If you do, you’ll never quite be free of it.”

“So you’ve tried—”

Face red, Dando cut him off with a jab of the finger. “I told you this is a private establishment!”

Branden rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Should I?”

“How should I know? Who am I to make your choices for you?” said Dando with a huge shrug and a glance to the corner.

Looking too, Branden noticed the four men staring at them intently, though no one else seemed to mark their conversation. He shivered, but immediately the men turned away. “Fair enough. Another ale, please. Where’s that dratted Thuna, anyway?”

“Right here, Branden dear,” a familiar voice answered, “and very pleased to see you safe and sound here. Dando dear, it’s been far too long. Why the last time I saw you…”

Thuna launched into a monologue, which seemed neither to surprise nor annoy Dando. He placidly nodded, often adding appropriate interjections, to all appearances actually interested. When he received a call for food or drink, he simply stepped away, then resumed at whatever point Thuna happened to be at. Dinner came and went, and still neither seemed to tire of the other.

Fascinated by Dando’s patience, Branden nevertheless found himself nodding at Thuna’s meandering stories. He waited until she excused herself for a moment, then gawked at Dando. “How on Hanor’s great earth do you stand it?”

Dando only laughed. “It’s my bloody job to stand it! Why do you think people come to my house?” He gestured around. “I’ve second rate food and third rate lodging, yet I could hardly spare you a room tonight. Other inns sell vittles and bedding; I sell the best bleeding service in Narngund, and that means something different to every customer.” His smile faded. “Besides, I’d rather listen than talk.”

The door swung open for the hundredth time that evening and all conversation ceased. In glided Kelvin, eyes a deep purple. He smiled dreamily, apparently untroubled by his wounds. The rags of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by a simple white tunic. None of these strange changes drew any attention. All focused on his neck.

He wore an iron collar engraved property of Garlund Ironvein.

“I’ve come on the orders of my great Master, Garlund Ironvein,” began Kelvin serenely, “to apologize for cheating today and all of the other disturbances I’ve caused here. Please forgive me, and know that my Master will answer for my future behavior.” His smile never faltered even as purple tears fell.

Murmurs grew to comments, comments to shouts, shouts to profanity. Fists clenched, weapons shook, threats of violence filled the air. The eye of the hurricane, Kelvin stood at the center of the maelstrom yet remained separate from and indifferent to it. Both sides soon turned the insults and hatred directed at either Kelvin or Garlund to the opposing party. The Halflings, shaking, huddled in a corner while the humans mostly stayed on the periphery: this was a Dwarven matter.

Friend groups argued amongst themselves: they either ejected dissidents or dissolved entirely. Once united within, cliques turned on other cliques. Dozens of small battles gradually merged into a great ideological war between two irreconcilable camps. Bellowing for order, Dando and a few neutrals stayed outside the fray, but the undecided gradually picked one side or the other, half the room cheering wildly and the other half screaming insults at each decision. Soon Dando stood alone, universally despised. Even the humans grew afraid and joined the halflings, while the four grim men had already vanished.

At least I don’t have to ask what the Dwarven Question is, Branden thought as he huddled in the corner with Thuna.