Humidity filled the room and heat rose from the steaming pools of water and the hot stone floor tiles. Men and women sat languidly, sweltering and soaking. Go down, Franco thought to himself. Go down, go down. Across from his raised tub, a young human woman with curly blonde hair lay across a stone table, basking in the humid, scented air. Vapours condensed on her skin and little beads of water formed and trickled down her side.

“Any progress” asked Rafford.

“None” the dwarf huffed.

“Maybe if you stopped looking, it would go down faster.”

“Oh, trust you bloody humans to go and build a mixed bathhouse.”

“I didn’t hear you complain when we came in.”

“I was in shock” Franco protested.

He set his gaze upon the ceiling. Peat bogs. Carpentry. Porridge. It was no use. His mind, and shortly after his eyes, returned to the bathhouse’s female patrons.

“I’m surprised at you Franco,” said Rafford, “that one’s not even a dwarf. Feeling unpatriotic, are we?”

“Fuck off.”

As the two bickered, a man entered the bathhouse. He was of an average build, and had an average face, but his uncommon styling of facial hair – only covering the jawline – and his tattoo – a manticore across his back – set him apart.

“Is that the one?” asked Rafford.

“Aye, that’d be he.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Franco was silent.

“Still?” Rafford chuckled and Franco punched him on the arm.

“What was that for?”

“You’re not helping.”

“Okay, okay, I know what you can do.”

“You do?”

“Yep. My father taught me this trick when I was a boy. Hold your breath.”

“Hold my breath?” asked Franco.

“Did I stutter? Hold your breath. You’ll see.”

The dwarf looked back to the stone ceiling, took a breath and held it. Sure enough, within the minute any inflations had ceased entirely.

“Well I’ll be buggered. It worked like a charm!” chuckled Franco.

“I told you.”

“Alright, time I got to work.”

His compromising situation handled, Franco stood and lifted himself out of the raised stone tub. Alongside Rafford he strode over to where his quarry sat on a marble bench, having to shuffle past a couple of patrons on the way.

“A dwarf in a human bathhouse is as rare as a priestess in a brothel” declared Franco.

“Alright, I’ll take the bait,” said Rafford, “Why is that?”

“Well,” started Franco, “If you would be so kind as to kneel I can show you.”

“Oh.”

“Aye.”

The pair approached the bench on which Franco’s target was sat.

“Alright now, I’ll handle my business. You start for the door, make sure my clothes are ready. Might be we’ll need to make a hasty retreat.”

With that Franco’s human friend made his way to the exit.

“Mr Anthony?” asked the dwarf.

“Yes. Who wants to know?” the man said as he stood, facing Franco.

A priestess in a brothel.

“Mr Orwend sends his regards” Franco said before driving his fist into Mr Anthony’s side, below the ribs, then spinning and using his other hand to sweep Mr Anthony’s legs out from under him. The man fell heavily, a wet slap sounded out as his naked back met with the tiled floor. Franco delivered a couple of kicks for good measure and scuttled away after Rafford.

This may not need stating, but for propriety’s sake I’ll mention this; Dwarves have within their physiology all of the same organs as does a human. They are smaller, obviously, and their proportions are different to those of a human body, as I will delve into in later chapters. The most notable examples are the heart and the liver, which are not all that much smaller than that of an average human male. It is also a safe rule of thumb that, when prescribing a medicine to a Dwarf, increase the dosage by an extra half. Yes, you read that correctly. Increase. They have a fierce metabolism and can process substances much faster than a human can, as I’m sure any reader who has drank with a Dwarf can testify.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A physician’s guidebook to the other races – Dr Anthony Hill

The ale in The Dogs Head was dark to the eye, bitter on the tongue and thick enough one could almost chew it. Perfect.

“I don’t get it” said Rafford.

Franco knew he had some fool’s disquisition he wanted to air. Were he sober he might have had the constitution to ignore it. But sober, he was not.

“What… do you not get?” he slurred.

“Why we always come here. Every contract we finish we end up in the same alehouse.”

“Every contract we finish?”

“Yes, we. I got us into that bathhouse. All you did was rough up some naked fellow.”

“Aye, I did, and it was bloody hard work. Do ye have any idea how difficult is for a dwarf to fist-fight a naked man without hitting him in the bollocks? I’d have sooner he was wearing steel plate, if it meant his rod and stones weren’t flapping about like jelly in the wind.”

“A fair point Franco. Well made.”

Their tankards clinked as they toasted Mr Anthony’s jelly.

Across from Franco another dwarf joined the table. He had thick coal-black hair, shaved on either side of his head but longer and slicked upwards in the middle. His beard was coarse and thick, the pride of any dwarf, and his eyebrows were equally bushy.

“Kherrin, you old bugger! What brings you to our table?”

The black-haired dwarf climbed onto the stool next to Rafford.

“Well I was in the city, looking for work, you know how it is. I catch word of a job, some banker looking to chasten a suitor of his daughter. A quite unsuitable suitor; you know the type. Well I meet the fellow and he tells me another dwarf has already taken the job. I ask him what this dwarf looked like, he tells me it was some coiffy, poofish fellow with blond hair. I put two and two together and found you here.”

“Aye, but how did you know I’d be here.”

“Franco, I know you better than you think. This establishment is a sight less shabby than the holes you typically like to crawl into, you would only splooge out and come here for one of three reasons. Now as far as I know, nobody has died. And I’m fairly certain you’re not trying to seduce Rafford here. You’re celebrating a job well done, and if I’m not mistaken that means you’re buying.”

Franco laughed a hoarse laugh.

“If I was trying to seduce Rafford, The Dogs Head would be a serious overestimation on my part. I reckon he’d drink sewer water if you poured enough rum into it.”

The table laughed and tankards clinked together again.

“So how did it go?” asked Kherrin, “Regale me with a tale.”

Rafford sat up.

“Our story begins in a bathhouse. The hero of the story, Franco, was too afraid to go in by himself. Nudity makes him nervous, apparently. Whether or not someone will have to hold his hand on his wedding night, we can only conjecture.”

The story paused as Franco reached across the table and punched him on the arm.

“Anyway,” Rafford continued, “his stage fright sated, the hero made his way into the bathhouse. Once there, however, the hero was faced with a monster.”

“A monster?” Kherrin asked, genuinely bewildered.

“That’s right. A tiny serpent that grew into a…”

Franco punched him again, hard this time.

“Ow. Anyway, the hero found the villain maliciously sitting on a bench, and he beat the hells out of him. Steering clear of the rod and the stones like a true gentleman. The end.”

“Cheers to that” Kherrin grinned.

Tankards clinked once more as the trio toasted Franco the hero’s valiant exploits.

“Very funny” said Franco.

“I certainly thought so” Rafford said, smiling.

Smiling like a bloody fool.

“Now we’re a fellowship, could I interest you gentle-dwarves in a round of Thrones?”

Franco sighed a deep sigh.

“Not that human garbage. If it’s games ye’ want we can play Dagnachë. That’s a real game.”

“By real, I assume you mean Dwarven?” Rafford joked, and Franco grumbled some colourful Dwarven language into his ale.

“Easy, Thrones isn’t that bad. Look at my deck, the Mountains Kingdom cards are all dwarves.”

“Oh, so dwarves mean mountains now,” Kherrin growled, “that’s a bloody cliché.”

“Anyway,” Franco cut in, “Kherrin, you said you arrived in the city recently. Any news from the great wide world?”

Kherrin took a sip from his tankard to calm himself the same way another might take a deep breath.

“Not a lot. War’s still on everybody’s lips. If anything occurs, it’ll be far from the city of Altome though, so we ought to be safe enough. Oh, I’ve got a big job coming up. Merchant caravan. I’ve been asked to put an escort together. We could use a couple of handy fellas such as yourselves actually, if you’re interested.”

“Well that depends,” said Franco, “where is this escort headed?”

“Caghdun.”

“Isn’t that the Dwarven city? Up north?” Rafford asked.

Franco rolled his eyes. “Where did you go to school? Aye it’s the Dwarven city. A great city, a real hub of trade and culture.”

“The one inside a mountain? If I’m not mistaken.”

The smile was back. Bloody, bloody foolish.

“Sorry to disappoint Kherrin, but it’s a no from Franco. Judging by today’s events, I’d say he’s become too enamoured with human women to leave Altoman lands.”

“Ah, so that’s the way of it. Gone and caught five-and-a-half-foot fever have ye?”

Rafford and Kherrin chuckled. Like a couple of idiots. How did I become the butt of all the jokes? I bought the bloody ale.

“I have caught no such thing” announced Franco. “I would be happy to join yer team. We can meet on the morrow and discuss terms. Oh kardh’ mi.”

“What?” asked Kherrin.

Franco pointed to the door behind them, where a man with uncommon facial hair, tattoos and a black eye had just entered The Dog’s Head accompanied by two much larger men.

“Card me indeed” said Rafford.

Kherrin just laughed at the man’s attempt at Dwarven.

“Do you remember where the back door is lads? I expect we ought to be using that about now.”

With that the trio hopped down from their stools and into the kitchens, past yelling chefs and startled servers, through the rear entrance and into the alleyway.