It was a snowy autumn night outside the tavern. Inside, the dwarves on stone tables and wooden chairs loomed over the mushroom wine and root soup and brooded over the day that had passed. The aroma mixed with the earthy, pungent smell of dwarf grease and animal fat, smothering the cave. The only release was the small hearth before which a small, reptilian creature swung two hollowed out beetles on a rattle‘s stick. The „Razz“ musician’s clunking, free style rhythms reverberated through the inn‘s domed stone ceiling, earning the scornful gaze of the residents. It wasn‘t bad music. But it reminded them of what they’d consider better, dwarven music.

Then the door creaked open slowly, revealing a massive frame that ill fit into the narrow cave. The guests shrunk away from the shadow‘s monstrous form. Hushed whispers filled the room. A drake. Always bad news. Always trouble. Like grass in the wind, the drinkers in its wake. The creature, with scales like scorched earth and clad in iron taken from all lords’ countries, stomped to the fire, leaning its tall and wide body against the hearth. Its yellow eyes grazed the room, wandering with an unknowable expression. Silence choked the inn until the barkeep, small for even her kind, shouted from across the counter.

“Now there, you gonna order or you gonna leech heat and scare the customers?”

“Soup.” the warrior replied, her voice uneven, gravely but vibrating with a sonorous strength.

“Not that good with words, eh? You're gonna get it from here once it’s done. Not gonna scare the barmaids into an early grave.”

“Fine, Mijira needs to sit down for it, anyway.” The tavern owner hurried off, shouting commands into the kitchen. “Gonna be ready soon enough. Just wait. And don’t be weird!”

The stranger gave no reply and pressed herself against the hearth’s wall. The Finns covering her ear holes perked slightly up as the drakeling razz musician continued his performance. The small green creature reached a loud part in the improvisation. The she-drake snorted and he turned to face her. No eye contact, so he didn’t want to assert his dominance. Neither did she. She opened in the dragons’ tongue. “Your play pleases Mijira, small one. Can you talk and perfom?” He nodded. “Good. For I don’t think these people will talk to me.”

The patrons exchanged meaningful glances and some cautious snickers between each other. She could smell the fear rising from the inngoers as the two of them exchanged a series of hissing and clicking noises.

“Any work for a sellsword around these parts? Mijira wandered the whole dwarven realm in search for work, found nothing and her funds are starting to dry up”

“I am sorry, miss, but the times are peaceful. The casteless had a mutiny recently but that business is over.”

“Not even as an adventurer or something? They don’t need someone supervising and beating up their shitshovelers now?”

“It does not seem so. Now the bureaucrats gotta have detachments from the military castes with them, whenever they go somewhere dangerous. Paid by the king, too.”

She let out a discontent snarl. “Makes sense, just not for Mijira. Do you have a guess as to how the king ever managed to browbeat the military into this? It’s not what they consider glorious.”

“A good question. They say he’s made some changes to the courts, got some new personnel, but that’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“Not like Mijira can make him change his mind, can she? Anyway, Mijira’s thanks for your music and answers so far, bard. What is your na-“

“Soup!” the barkeep yelled.

“Mijira’ll be there for you in a moment.” She threw the drakeling a silver and some copper coins. „There you go.“ Bobbing their head, the bard uncorked their rattle. They let the silver and two of the copper coins fall in and resumed the play. The barbarian bobbed their head in acknowledgement and turned around.

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The barkeep set down the plate with a resounding whack. Like with all good dwarven artisanry, neither the dinnerware nor the table suffered any ill from it. Mijira stared at the insect plates swimming along the broken down vegetables.

Her tongue flickered out, taking in the salty vapors and pungent smell of roots broken down into edibility by hours of cooking. She eyed the sprinkler filled with lead shavings nearby. A fool’s choice. Yes, the taste would be more bearable, but the metal always brought one to bad decisions. If you weren’t a dwarf, that is. There was only way through a dwarven meal- charging in.

She closed her eyes, gagged and lifted the bubbling plate up, pouring it into her open mouth. Like water down the drain, the food disappeared without a single gulp. With a snapping sound and another gag, she closed her mouth, small wafts of steamescaping the nostrils.

The dwarfs stared at her in disgust and -belief.She shoved some coins the barkeeps way and wanted to make her way back to the fire. But as she turned aroundm she bumped into something. One dwarven specimen, clean shaven but ash covered, that was small for even their kin.

„Watch where you‘re going, you fucking turt..le.“ He snarled, casting an angry glance at her.

“No harm intended.“ The drake growled.

To the dwarf, the creature remained motionless and answered in a deadened monotone. Not so to the bard. Her tail and posture shifted, slouching down. The sharp scent of anger rose in his nose. But more worrying was the musty stench that the dwarf’s ashen odor barely held back. Potent, it was. Dark. Simmering, sizzling. Ready to burst. He remembered the face and smell of his benefactor and stowed the coin laden rattles.

The scenery of the dwarf’s face was undergoing a rapid tectonic change. The white snowcaps of the sooty and cracked skin melted as volcanic veins burned red underneath. The rage accrued from living a privileged middle aged live could no longer be contained by the plug of godly morals.

„NO HARM INTENDED?

NO

HARM

INTENDED.

DO YOU KNOW THE KINDS OF EMOTIONAL DAMAGES YOUR MERE EXISTENCE INFLICTS ON US?

“You come to our tavern, eat our food and use your elven gold to pay the decadent wild man music this degenerate runt inflicts on us! How dare you tramble our values? How dare you spit into the face of everything that is good and decent? How dare you? HOW. DARE. YOU?”

The drakeling cringed away from the scene, his possessions in hand. But before he could get far, something heavy and fast rammed into him.His gear flew to the ground, scattering about. Another dwarf, cleaner then the oth, dressed in the clothes of a jeweler towered over him. Already, he pilfered the rattle and coin purse of the razz player with manic speed, stuffing it into sack.. “Help! I am being robbed by these reptiles!” He screamed.

In seconds, the bard was grabbed by the bystanders, as all eyes were on the source of the commotion now. Boos, slurs and outraged curses erupted from the citizens.

Before either Mijira or the bard could act, the smith decked the drake in the stomach. With a wheeze, she staggered back. And then a third, broader dwarf tackled her legs from behind, throwing her down. The two jumped her, the metalworker battering her with fists, the other hammering a barstool into her stomach.

The drakeling screamed, twitching and trying to escape. But against the vice grip of dwarves, his twig-like limbs did no good. “Thief!” “Drakerunt!” “Stealing from honest dwarfs!” An old song. He stopped struggling, freezing like prey before the hunter as a cold sense of futility crept into him. The punches hit like an avalanche. Before long, darkness clouded his vision. Mijira, still struggling, roared with rage as the barstool raced towards her head.

And then, a plopping sound of air giving way as if a bottle of wine had been opened turned the heads away from the bard and onto her. The barstool, with explosive speed, was flung to the room and shattered into thousands of pieces. The broad dwarf, however, screamed in bone chilling agony and clasped his right arm. The drake had bitten it half of. Now, it swung wildly around. Blood sprayed everywhere as dying nerves send inconsequential cries for help.

Both her assailants recoiled in horror as the beast jumped onto the belly of the other and sunk her razor sharp teeth into it, biting down on the intestines again and again. The rest of the tavern screamed out in horror. A desperate race out of the tavern ensued as blood red guts flew about and the agonized shrieks of the would-be attacker died.

Mijira idly watched the fleeing dwarves, recovering from her rage and the beating she took. Slowly rising up, she swallowed the bits of flesh still tangling in her mouth and licking her muzzle clean. So far so good. But she knew the bard had been in trouble. And no trace of him. Not good.

Her tongue flicked out and she took up the scent of the bard and his captors. No heed was paid to the surviving dwarf as he whimpered and groaned, barely holding onto his arm. He had stopped fighting and, as far as she reckoned, would not want to talk. And even if he wanted to, nothing he could tell her would be either as true or as interesting as the trail of smell spreading before her.