Flip’s hopes of reaching the midway camp before the end of the fourth day were realized, though the two had traveled longer than intended to reach it. And while Flip still did not fully trust Dovhran, talking with him and hearing more of who he was had made the travel more bearable. When the first sign of fire light had pierced the fresh night, Flip had still leaned eagerly out of the cart towards it. Dovhran was clearly uncomfortable getting close to another camp this late at night. And for good reason.

Before the cart came within two hundred feet of the fire light, there was a soft thunk in the back of the cart behind Flip quickly followed by a sharp point pressed against the wizard’s back.

“Who’re you lot and why’re you commin’ up the road this late?” The voice was low and gruff; and the accent was not one Flip was familiar with.

When Flip tried to turn to see who was behind him, the point pressed harder against his back and he was met with a muttered “Don’t try nuthin, grey beard.”

“We’re mercenaries, traveling to Norwen for work. We just wanted to make camp here, so we traveled late.” Dovhran had pulled the reins up to stop the cart and was speaking with an exaggerated frustration.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Are you going to do this to me every time I pass through the camp, Rovik?”

“Ya gonna pass through after dark every time like a ponce?” The gruff voice had grown more humorous with the exchange and the sharp object was lowered from Flip’s back.

A much louder and care free thunk accompanied the figure falling into a more relaxed position in the back of the cart next to Flip. The wizard turned around and assumed a similar sitting position to the dwarf he now found himself in the company of; dagger still in hand, but with the point now pressed into the wood of the cart bed. Flip had met very few dwarves, and even then not formally. They seldom traveled through Builend, and the ones that lived in Builend rarely had need of magical services. Uli of the violet cords was, perhaps, the dwarf that Flip had exchanged the most words with to that point. And yet, so many things about this dwarf, dimly lit and distinguished as he was, confused Flip

This dwarf, Rovik, seemed rather agile, though there were clear signs of white hair in his chest length beard. Flip was surprised he hadn’t heard the dwarf sneak up on them, both because of his proportions and because of the countless stone beads woven through the dwarf’s well maintained beard and the darker black locks of hair that ran down the side of the dwarfs wide face. Though, perhaps the most surprising of features Flip noticed, was the lack of scars or other trace injury on the dwarf’s person. That part did not match with other stories Flip had heard about dwarves; namely that they were frequently in combat and often had long stories about their injuries.

“You moved your perimeter out, Rovik. Is there something going on at the campsite?” Dovhran sighed and whipped the reins up to get the cart moving again.

“Well yeah there is. It’s slime season. One of those dumb globs comes through the camp in the middle of the night and eats our whole shipment and we got nuthin left to sell.” The dwarf growled at the mention of the slime. “And you can’t just slow it down either, can you. No, you gotta catch ’em early and divert them around the whole loading and unloading zone. And none of the Braidarms want to help, because why would they. They don’t even mine the stone anymore. Four generations of useless dwarves doin nothin but posturing over the rest of us like they own the whole quarry and run all the shipments south of town.”

“Hard time then, Rovik? Lots of slimes through this season?” Dovhran jeered from the front of the cart. He seemed to tolerate this dwarf the same way that Flip tolerated Dovhran. The comparison made Flip chuckle under his breath, though it was still loud enough for everyone on the cart to hear it.

“Oh, what’s funny old man? Never lost your income to a random slime?”

“Faengil just fed a slime earlier today, I don’t think he quite minds them.” Dovhran laughed at the implication he’d given for the dwarf to be mad about.

“You what?!” Rovik almost stood up in the middle of the cart. “Why’d you feed one?”

“They have a defense instinct. When you take part of them they become aggressive. And I wanted part of it. I distracted a small one with food.” Flip explained, doing his best to be clear and level with the dwarf; he was very aware of the dagger still clutched, now with a white knuckled grip, in his hand.

“If that living phlegm comes through the camp, I’ll find you, grey beard. I will. Don’t think I’ll not forget your name.”

“It was hardly a foot in diameter and it was going southwest. I would think it would dissolve in a creek before it realized it was heading the wrong way for the season. It was probably a fresh drop from a larger slime.”

“You better be right about that…” the dwarf paused to recall the name he had just learned, “Faengil.”

“If that happens, I will gladly kill it myself and pay you for your losses.” Flip raised an eyebrow, attempting to turn the dwarf’s attitude. “I can always use more engorged slime.”

“Oh? So you’re one of them alchemist types. Mixing wild slimes with all manner of dirt and chemicals. Anything useful from the little one?” The mention of collecting slime had definitely turned Rovik’s attitude to one of curiosity rather than frustration. Flip had not been expecting that to be the turning point, but accepted it nonetheless.

“I was able to concoct a fire bomb of sorts.” Flip mumbled, now not so sure about wanting to talk. “I gave it to Dovhran.”

“You gave me a bomb?!” Dovhran was again alarmed at what he had on his person, and Flip could hear him move the reins around and scramble to move the vial on his person. “You said it was flammable, not explosive!”

“Oh, oh that’s glorious. Faengil, I’ll not forget you for makin’ a fool of Sommar. He’s always actin’ far too high and mighty. You’re always welcome in my camp.” Rovik slapped a hand down on Flip’s shoulder as he let out a boisterous laugh. The whole action made Flip deeply uncomfortable. “Come on, get out, make yourself comfortable, dinner’s still warm.”

Rovik stowed his dagger and stood up in the back of the cart as it rocked to a stop. With a quick turn, the dwarf grabbed the edge of the cart and launched himself out into the now brighter wooded area. There were a series of small torches affixed to long poles embedded in the ground around the side of the road, the light or torches and oil lanterns leading the way to a small series of tents and a wooden shack just beyond the tree line. Loud voices echoed out from the center of the camp, where a large campfire was blazing.

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Without any other indication of what to do, Flip looked to Dovhran to determine what he should be doing. Dovhran didn’t seem to be paying Flip any mind, however, as he jumped down from the front of the cart and began to tend to the horse. For lack of better options, Flip awkwardly followed Rovik to the heart of the camp where four other dwarves sat. The whole band was nursing tankards, and looked like they had been for a while. There was also a spit over the fire with the remains of some hunted beast Flip didn’t recognize. The smell of real freshly cooked food immediately balanced out the social discomfort, and none of the dwarves stopped Flip as he pulled a piece of the beast free and began to chew on the meat. There was a general nod, but none of the dwarves at the fire said anything as Flip sat down among them.

It was a little uncomfortable, as there had been some rowdy conversation from a distance, but as soon as Flip had come into view of the other dwarves it had grown silent.

“This is Faengil. Sommar picked him up, and he’s got a good humor on him for a younger lad.” Rovik introduced Flip casually and handed a tankard over to the wizard. “Sommar ’ll be over in a second.”

Flip, decidedly, did not drink from the tankard he was handed.

“Oh, I always knew that skinny bloke flipped odd ways.” Another dwarf chuckled from across the fire. “Didn’t think he went for beards though!”

“We’ve all seen yer wife, Tope, her beards longer than yers!” A rollicking laugh erupted from all the other dwarves around the fire.

“And she’s beautiful!” Each of the dwarves, apart from Rovik, began to burst into a song that Flip didn’t recognize.

Her beards real long

And her head’s on right.

She’s strict, she’s stern,

Never lets me outt’a her sight.

Oh yes, oh yes,

She’s a beauty, alright.

She’s a statue carved from stone!

Rovik leaned over to Flip after the first verse and nudged the tankard in his hand “That’s tea. You don’t look more than fifty and may the mountain flatten me if I give an ale to a kid.”

After a cursory sniff, Flip lifted the tankard to his lips and took a tentative swig of the liquid inside. He couldn’t really see into the deep cup, but the taste was reminiscent of tea. Not any tea that Flip had tasted before, and it had probably steeped for longer than it should have, but it was a pleasant gesture. Flip was still put off by the insinuation that Rovik saw him as a child, but it wasn’t uncommon for dwarves and elves to consider humans of any age to be children. Partly because their lives tended to span hundreds of years, but also because they had a general paternal nature innate to their culture.

Dovhran entered the radius of the fire and leaned against a sturdy tent pole as another verse of the song picked up from a rowdy and incoherent chorus.

Her sword’s real sharp

And her axe is too.

She’s smart, she’s cool

Just the best of the crew.

Oh yes, oh yes,

She’ll carry you through.

She’s the pillar of my home!

There was a shout with the last line and the dwarves began to ramble off in their own directions with smaller conversation.

“They’re like this every night,” Rovik chuckled, “They have one good song in ’em before they lose all direction and focus.”

“And they only know how to sing about their wives.” Dovhran huffed as he took a seat by Flip.

Rovik passed a tankard over to Dovhran, and as it passed in front of Flip he could smell the alcoholic fumes wafting out of it. Flip gave Rovik a confused look, but the dwarf only shook his head. “What else do they have to sing about? The mountains? The weather?”

“Or your mother!?” Another dwarf from around the fire half shouted, half wheezed. The comment sparked another round of irrationally exuberant laughter.

“I’ll thank you not to comment on my mother, Gellig.” Dovhran let off a wicked grin and casually tossed a dagger through the campfire to land between the dwarf’s legs on the side of the stump he was sitting on. “She’s a better shot than I am.”

The dwarves let out another round of laughter and Dovhran took a deep drink from his tankard.

Flip was confused, and concerned by the rapidly evolving exchange that was transpiring. Though, no matter how rude or tense anyone got around the fire, it was laughed off in seconds. It made no sense. Even drunk, Flip had seen elves and humans and orcs and halflings at each others throats for less words. And even dwarves were known to brawl in taverns and bars for ridiculous reasons. But as Flip thought back on it, he had never heard of a dwarf fighting someone like that with malice. A good punch to the face at a bad joke, but never a blade or a bludgeon lifted. It was a confusing set of interactions, but as Flip thought it through he began to reconcile the strange behavior. Culture often confused him, and he allowed this to be a time when that happened.

“I don’t suppose you two want to tell me what it is you’re really doing in Norwen?” Rovik nodded to Dovhran with a sip of his own drink, doing his best to remain level headed among the chaos.

“We’re taking a navigator into the wastes on a map-making expedition.” Dovhran sighed, the lie catching Flip somewhat off guard. “Faengil is my emergency, just in case, wizard.”

“Ah, so you are.” Rovik gave an absent bat at the ends of the violet cords hanging off Flip’s waist. “My apologies for the display, Faengil. We don’t see many arcane folk around these parts. The rare swamp druid from the east, but they tend to stay away because they get something of a royal treatment in Norwen these days. Too many sycophantic Braidarms…”

“Rovik, if I ever talked about people that hire me the way that you talk about the entire clan that owns the company you work for, I’d never get more work.” Dovhran grumbled with a mouth full of food.

“Alright, I’ll stop. Waste of breath anyway.” Rovik shrugged. “I should probably get back on perimeter as well. Find a tent and make yourselves comfortable… Tope! Make sure these two have a spot to sleep.”

“Aye, boss, we got an empty tent.” The other dwarf shouted from across the fire.

Dovhran gave Flip a look, as if to question whether or not the wizard would decline the offer. Rather than respond to the silent question, Flip gave the other dwarf a clear and understanding nod. The dwarf raised his tankard in response before putting it to the side and rising to his feet.

With food and drink still in hand, Flip followed Tope’s lead to a mostly empty but elaborately constructed tent. The only objects under its canopy were a plain wooden chest, which the dwarf opened to reveal several bed rolls and blankets, and an oil lamp which the dwarf lit and hung on an interior pole.

“We rise early, wizard, and if you linger you’ll be expected to pull some weight.”

“I expect us be out of your hair with haste.” Flip gave the dwarf a reassuring nod. “Though, if you manage to kill a slime, be sure to bottle it and keep in storage, I can pay you for it or make something useful for you in payment for the meal.”

“Don’t you worry about payin us. We don’t get much company. It’s Nice to have young faces around the fire to boot. Reminds us of when we were youthful.” Tope gave a nod and was about to duck back out of the tent.

“Thank you. May your hearth be warm.” Flip offered the platitude as both a habit when meeting new people, but also as a way of gauging what new cultures involved.

“Aye, and chains blessing to you.” Tope cocked his head before giving his own blessing, visibly confused. “We don’t see many human hearth folk around the mountains.”

“I spent many years in a hearth temple in Builend.” Flip looked away, avoiding eye contact with the dwarf as he spoke. He secretly hoped the temple would be unknown to him, but was obliged to be truthful regardless.

“Builend…” The dwarf hummed as he struggled to recall a memory. “I’ve not traveled that far west. Rovik might know your temple, he spent a long time wandering in his youth. Prefers hearth homes when traveling, too. Says they always have a grinding stone for him to use. The good memories might get you some credit in his books, and dwarven credit goes a long way.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Flip gave the dwarf another respectful nod before Tope left the tent. Dovhran slouched through the tent opening not long after the dwarf’s departure, the same silent question still on his face.

“I will get my hatch. Take as much space as you desire, Sommar.” Flip deliberately exaggerated his pronunciation of the name. He wasn’t going to ask why the dwarves called him that, but he wasn’t going to let Dovhran forget that he knew it.

“Be careful with my family name, Faengil. That sort of locution is generally reserved for elders or figures of authority. And I may or may not have twice your experience.”

“You certainly could have fooled me, changeling. Your age may elude me, but your manners are clearly juvenile.”

“Maturity, Faengil, as the dwarves will tell you, has nothing to do with age.” Dovhran frowned in mild disgust at the wizard. “It has everything to do with honor and reputation. It is both what you have in you, and what you show the world. Even an old man can be as petty as a child.”

“And the dwarves would call me a child regardless. So, can I be blamed?”