Jon moved from lad to lass and sometimes he wasn’t sure which. The tavern ale, even the good shit, hit like a brick shit-house.

He had taken anti-hangover pills just prior, plus a heavy dose of a homebrew turmeric mix that tasted like street grime. Nonetheless, he seriously doubted their efficacy with the current dwarven paint-thinner ale he was drinking—fucking dwarves and their drink.

All the same, he had a job to do. And, he was a functional drunk; all his higher brain functions being reserved for imitating civility. Underneath, he was just a cold, calculating son-of-a-bitch: a human.

Fortunately, he didn’t need to remember everything. The data feeds would take care of that. Just the last few sentences would suffice, though lately, even that was proving to be troublesome as he got deeper in the drink.

Jon stumbled upon an interesting conversation amongst some young elven farmhands about a new creature spotted in the skies these past few weeks. It was hard to catch sight of the beast as it often appeared suspiciously shaded the same colour as the sky—a trick of the light perhaps or some unusual magic. Jon immediately found their observations extremely captivating.

It often hid in the clouds too, and in Elgelican skies that was almost always possible. Jon was told to be on the lookout for a bulbous thing in the shape of a bull’s scrotum. He retorted that perhaps two sidelong loaves or melons were an apter a description.

The analogy had sadly stuck, and Jon was deeply troubled by the notion. The men attempted to allay his worried expression, saying it was always far off and may well be completely harmless. Unfortunately, deprecation of the ‘scrotum beast’s’ threat did not alleviate the core of his concerns.

Instead, he drifted off to the kilt-wearing dwarf. The character was decidedly at the top of Jon’s hit list; however, he needed to be adequately pissed first. Somehow, anything less seemed like disrespect. So it was as he flopped down wordlessly in front of the bearded man. Feeling sufficiently stone-faced he passed a full tankard of ale to the dwarf.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Hiii,” he burped. “I mean good day to you.” Jon gave a wobbly glance at the sky from the porch. Heavily obscured by the fuck-off big trees, it was night. “Evening… good evening. Bretha gave me the best Dwarven Ale she had.”

“Oh aye, I’ve seen ya bin buyin for half the tavern, while the young elven lass be working the otha half. Mores the business for me family, so I thank ya for that. What might this here humble dwarf be able to help ya with.” He produced a hearty laugh.

Jon, for the first time in quite a while, was a bit starstruck. Here before him was an honest to god, ale-drinking, bearded dwarf, with the Scottish accent and everything. No scratch that, this dwarf was literally from Scotland, a Scottish Dwarf. They didn’t call them dwarf folk from whence he came, they were just folk.

“Please, may I know your name.” It was the most fanboy shit he had said all night. He was not the least bit ashamed.

“Aye that you can lad. Ma name is Bron Smith; just Bron be fine a’course. None of those highfalutin elfish titles ya hear. Just Bron.” He admonished.

He turned his head to the side, muttered under his breath. “Oh, god, yes!” ‘Murray’ or ‘MacDonald’ would have been perfectly fine, but to snag the coveted ‘Smith’, he was on a roll!

“Please for the love of God, tell me you’re an actual smith.”

“Aye, that I am.”

“Fuck, yes!” Jon stood, hands raised looking about as if he had just won a boxing championship. “You hear that universe! The Scottish Dwarf Bron Smith is a smith! Goddamn it, you’ve just made my night. Drinks on me here on out Bron, whatever you’re ordering I’m paying.”

“I dunae know what the gods’ Scottish’ be, but I take it you’re enamoured of a sort then. I own the Cask along with me wife and the smithy out back, so I wasn’t payin as such. All the same, yer welcome te covering the coin.”

“He owns a smithy too, dear lord, this is the best night of my life!” Jon was not fucking about! He downed his tankard and ordered another round for everyone nearby. “Fuck my life, Bron. I’m Jon Kelly, and I’d love to know about you and your family. Please spare no details!” Again the dwarf bellowed a laugh, lounging back in his seat cradling his rotund belly.

“Well then Jon, sit back, and I’ll regale you with a few o me choice tales.”