Deep beneath the frost topped mountains of The Spine, amidst the bustling markets of the dwarven city of Belgrath writhed a sea of bodies going about their business. While the nobles, the wealthy, and those who wished to blend in with the aforementioned were idle and slothful, many of the workers, warriors, and other forms of "common rabble" were flowing fast through the intricate and beautiful carved stone streets.
One dwarf in particular moved with clear force and purpose behind his swift, powerful steps. Clad in black leather garments, he had a long, complexly braided beard of orange hair, and a tuft equally bright hair atop and behind his head. The sides of his head were clean shaven. And his golden eyes looked ahead with ferocious intensity. This dwarf was like a mining cart headed downhill at a great speed. Some of the lower classes even bumped into others as they hurried to get out of his way.
Soon his destination was clear; a fine old storefront in the eastern corner of the third market. Ornately carved with otherworldly geometrical designs, a tall, thin, vertical parchment sign was affixed to the front outer wall near the door displaying dwarven runes drawn with immaculate calligraphy. The translation of said runes might be rendered in the common tongue as "Processing House". The dwarf slowed his approach as he neared the place and swore before going in.
Within the processing house were shelves upon shelves of potions, mortars, pestles, a ingredients, metal rods, powders, samples of strange stones, and various other odd looking items that the mind might not immediately place as alchemical paraphernalia, but in fact were just that. Several customers filled the store leisurely perusing these special wares, not all of whom were dwarves. A lithe but tall orc dressed in expensive finery, a few humans, and at least one elf were present.
Opposite the entrance was a long, short counter, standing behind which was a pretty young dwarf woman with pale skin, serpent green eyes and long black hair. She was a feminine type, smooth of face, and wearing dark mostly black make up and a dark crimson dress with black accents. She was occupied with weighing out a selection of roots for a scholarly looking elven girl with pale white hair, when the intimidating male dwarf walked in.
Not one to be made to wait, he walked right up to the counter and demanded "Is the master of the house in?"
"Well hello to you to, Odeg!" The girl behind the counter teased with aggressive cheerfulness. But the other dwarf just stood there, silently shooting daggers with his eyes, looking like he was about to have an aneurysm at any moment. Finally the one weighing roots relented with a sigh, "He's in the lab, of course. But you'd better knock first or he could blow us all to Molthal!"
Odeg acted quickly upon the information without sparring time for pleasantries. In a hallway behind the main chamber of the store he came to a flight of stairs with steps leading up and steps leading down. The dwarf went up and, as instructed, knocked.
"Izel? Is everything alright in the shop?" Three voices answered in unison, one was soft, moderately high pitched and yet masculine, another was like a song or a whistle, mid toned, and also masculine. But the third was toneless and alien, like a semi mechanical humming or vibration.
"More like your old friend from Belgrath-Akkar." The dwarf growled.
But the tones of the alchemist shifted to those of pleasant surprise.
"Odeg! Come in!" And as the dwarf did so he found himself in a well ventilated room filled short tables occupied by liquid filled beakers, glowing vials, resonators, pressurizers, strange vats of bubbling sludge, stills, refiners, a large crucible, and many more contraptions and chemicals than the storefront below even hinted at. There was even a miniature forge in the far corner. Upon the wall left of the entrance was was perched the spiderlike being whom the city of Belgrath had come to know as Vondarien the Alchemist, watching patiently as strange gas within a certain jar changed from one color to another to another and so forth. "How are you doing? What brings you here today?"
"Business. Belgrath-Akkar business." The visitor sighed. "We're in a proper mess down there. And we need double the oil and chemicals that I've ordered from you before and in half the time. Meinarth said that he could fill the order in two thirds of the time but he's gouging us on the prices. Now I know I don't need to tell you about some of these traditionalists who'd rather not see you living in Belgrath at all, let alone having to order supplies from you. So if you want to keep this contract, you're going to need to beat him for speed, and keep the rates reasonable."
"Meinarth's compounds are shoddy and his supplies are second rate." Came the Portiid's voices as he took the jar of shifting, glowing gas and leapt from the wall to the center of the room. He then placed the jar below an upside down funnel connected to an apparatus of bronze and glass that fed several tunes out from the other end, each tube set above a glass container as if to pour into it. After opening the jar, it's contents were sucked completely into the apparatus.
"I know that. Me and my best workers all know that. The problem is that the Forgemaster is one of those bloody minded traditionalists who would rather see the contract go to a dwarf than ...well, you."
The apparatus began to drip a teal colored liquid from one of its tubes into a glass flask positioned underneath it at a very slow pace. Vondarien looked approvingly and moved on to checking the gauges on the outside of several bloated, pumpkinesque steel barrels nearby.
"Well, I know my suppliers... They might not make the shipments we'd need in time..." The talking arachnid stopped at one barrel and tapped on it softly. The sound was flat. Like knocking on stone. He adjusted a dial on the lower portion and moved on to the next. "But it will be an interesting experiment to see if we can fulfill your request."
"I was hoping you'd say that." The dwarf nearly cracked a smile. He didn't. But he at least stopped scowling for a moment.
"You'll have to deal with Izel when the time comes, however." The spider finished reading the last of the metal pumpkin barrels and turned to approach the dwarf. "It seems that, for the moment at least, the traditionalists are going to get there way."
"You're leaving?" There was something of shock in the dwarf's gravelly voice.
"For a little while. Too many untapped markets and suppliers topside. And I can't compete with every Meinarth that comes along without tapping a few of them. Besides... " Vondarien paused for a moment in nostalgic reflection. "I miss trees. Haven't laid eyes on one since I was a spiderling. But they were gorgeous."
The Drunken Drake Inn and Tavern was a quaint little hovel barely a mile inside of Belgrath near the Gates of Irithul. It was mostly inhabited by foreign visitors, cheap mercenaries, and predacious ne'er-do-wells. At one table a dwarf and an orc were arm wrestling while another dwarf was taking bets on who would win. Sitting alone not far away was a drow prostitute show off her wares. The bar was divided into two sections, a higher counter on one side for taller clients and a lower counter on the other side fit for shorter races such as dwarves and halflings. At the tall bar a group of well drunk humans were getting rowdy and doing their best to sing some old human folksong about a quest for an emerald sword. But it wasn't a very pretty rendition.
"FOR DER KING! FOR DER LANSH! FOR DER MOOOOOOUUUUNTINSH!
FOR DER GREEN VALLEYSH WHERE DRAGOOONSH FLLYYYYYYY!!!..."
One dwarf at shorter side of the bar, minding his own business and trying to enjoy a few drinks without listening to that racket had actually stopped his ears with bottle corks. While most other patrons were content to let the drunken revelers have their fun.
It was amidst this scene that Vondarien descended the stairs in the back of the room. Sure, he could have walked on the walls or the ceiling. But he'd gotten used to imitating the locomotion and mannerisms of humanoids. It did much to put them at ease. And humanoids at ease made for better business partners and allies than nervous ones. Unless of course hostile negotiation tactics were called for.
He was wearing a sort of collared vest of dark blue leather over his midsection with many pockets and several satchels strapped tightly to the main body of the garment. He had a wrist crossbow secured to the tarsus of each of his two front most legs with a quiver of bolts at his back just above his abdomen. And a slingshot holstered below his main body segment within easy reach of his pedipalps. The alchemist was ready to begin his journey.
Still he was hesitant. He would miss Belgrath and Izel and all of his customers. He decided to have a drink before he set out into the wider world of Arethil. So he went over to the bar and hopped up on to one of the stools at the taller side of the bar, squatting rather than actually sitting upon it. This gave one of the humans quite a fright apparently, causing their horrible vocal stylings to disintegrate into much less rambunctious and quieter chatter.
"YESH! I AM AT WARRIOR! I'LL FOOOOLLOOOW ME -Aaagghhh!"
"Hey! Follow yer arse? What er ya talking about? It'sh follow ma waey!"
"I didn't even shay that ya blockhead!"
"Who you calling a blockhead yewwwww orn'ry git?!"
"Who ya calling ornery? I'm jusht trying ta shing a shong..."
This seemed to please many of the patrons, and won some good will from even the bartender; a bald headed and beardless old dwarf with a bushy unibrow who looked almost like he himself was made out of stone. He laughed and approached the Portiid.
"Tell you what, just for that first rounds on the house."
Vondarien nodded appreciatively and ordered a mug of ale. When his drink arrived however he produced a small white cube, not unlike a lump of sugar, and dropped it in. The drink immediately began to fizzle and froth until the entire mug had been converted from regular ale into a thick purple sludge. This added proteins and essential vitamins to the drink, turning it into a full meal. Albeit one that got you a bit tipsy. It would also aid digestion. For dwarven brewing techniques, as Vondarien discovered in The Mountain Rose many years ago, were not always friendly to Portiid stomachs.
As the talking spider slowly slurped his last meal/drink in Belgrath he reflected on his preparations. It wasn't orthodox, him setting out like this. It wasn't proper. If he'd meant to do things right, he'd have brought more flasks, a retort, a calcinator, an alembic, a wagon or two filled with supplies, products and laboratory essentials. He'd have hired guards. He'd have picked a single destination and planned a route. He'd have withdrawn more from his accounts. And he certainly wouldn't have spent his last night in Belgrath in some dank flophouse near the western gates.
No he wasn't acting like the canny businessman that he had made himself out to be when he sold the idea to his friends and partners around the city. He was in fact acting like a naive young idealist who dreamt of becoming a hero, seeing the world, and making a name for himself across all of Arethil. Even now he was lingering in The Drunken Drake when he could have been starting his journey. It was like he was waiting to meet his first adventuring companion at the start of some old fable.
One dwarf in particular moved with clear force and purpose behind his swift, powerful steps. Clad in black leather garments, he had a long, complexly braided beard of orange hair, and a tuft equally bright hair atop and behind his head. The sides of his head were clean shaven. And his golden eyes looked ahead with ferocious intensity. This dwarf was like a mining cart headed downhill at a great speed. Some of the lower classes even bumped into others as they hurried to get out of his way.
Soon his destination was clear; a fine old storefront in the eastern corner of the third market. Ornately carved with otherworldly geometrical designs, a tall, thin, vertical parchment sign was affixed to the front outer wall near the door displaying dwarven runes drawn with immaculate calligraphy. The translation of said runes might be rendered in the common tongue as "Processing House". The dwarf slowed his approach as he neared the place and swore before going in.
Within the processing house were shelves upon shelves of potions, mortars, pestles, a ingredients, metal rods, powders, samples of strange stones, and various other odd looking items that the mind might not immediately place as alchemical paraphernalia, but in fact were just that. Several customers filled the store leisurely perusing these special wares, not all of whom were dwarves. A lithe but tall orc dressed in expensive finery, a few humans, and at least one elf were present.
Opposite the entrance was a long, short counter, standing behind which was a pretty young dwarf woman with pale skin, serpent green eyes and long black hair. She was a feminine type, smooth of face, and wearing dark mostly black make up and a dark crimson dress with black accents. She was occupied with weighing out a selection of roots for a scholarly looking elven girl with pale white hair, when the intimidating male dwarf walked in.
Not one to be made to wait, he walked right up to the counter and demanded "Is the master of the house in?"
"Well hello to you to, Odeg!" The girl behind the counter teased with aggressive cheerfulness. But the other dwarf just stood there, silently shooting daggers with his eyes, looking like he was about to have an aneurysm at any moment. Finally the one weighing roots relented with a sigh, "He's in the lab, of course. But you'd better knock first or he could blow us all to Molthal!"
Odeg acted quickly upon the information without sparring time for pleasantries. In a hallway behind the main chamber of the store he came to a flight of stairs with steps leading up and steps leading down. The dwarf went up and, as instructed, knocked.
"Izel? Is everything alright in the shop?" Three voices answered in unison, one was soft, moderately high pitched and yet masculine, another was like a song or a whistle, mid toned, and also masculine. But the third was toneless and alien, like a semi mechanical humming or vibration.
"More like your old friend from Belgrath-Akkar." The dwarf growled.
But the tones of the alchemist shifted to those of pleasant surprise.
"Odeg! Come in!" And as the dwarf did so he found himself in a well ventilated room filled short tables occupied by liquid filled beakers, glowing vials, resonators, pressurizers, strange vats of bubbling sludge, stills, refiners, a large crucible, and many more contraptions and chemicals than the storefront below even hinted at. There was even a miniature forge in the far corner. Upon the wall left of the entrance was was perched the spiderlike being whom the city of Belgrath had come to know as Vondarien the Alchemist, watching patiently as strange gas within a certain jar changed from one color to another to another and so forth. "How are you doing? What brings you here today?"
"Business. Belgrath-Akkar business." The visitor sighed. "We're in a proper mess down there. And we need double the oil and chemicals that I've ordered from you before and in half the time. Meinarth said that he could fill the order in two thirds of the time but he's gouging us on the prices. Now I know I don't need to tell you about some of these traditionalists who'd rather not see you living in Belgrath at all, let alone having to order supplies from you. So if you want to keep this contract, you're going to need to beat him for speed, and keep the rates reasonable."
"Meinarth's compounds are shoddy and his supplies are second rate." Came the Portiid's voices as he took the jar of shifting, glowing gas and leapt from the wall to the center of the room. He then placed the jar below an upside down funnel connected to an apparatus of bronze and glass that fed several tunes out from the other end, each tube set above a glass container as if to pour into it. After opening the jar, it's contents were sucked completely into the apparatus.
"I know that. Me and my best workers all know that. The problem is that the Forgemaster is one of those bloody minded traditionalists who would rather see the contract go to a dwarf than ...well, you."
The apparatus began to drip a teal colored liquid from one of its tubes into a glass flask positioned underneath it at a very slow pace. Vondarien looked approvingly and moved on to checking the gauges on the outside of several bloated, pumpkinesque steel barrels nearby.
"Well, I know my suppliers... They might not make the shipments we'd need in time..." The talking arachnid stopped at one barrel and tapped on it softly. The sound was flat. Like knocking on stone. He adjusted a dial on the lower portion and moved on to the next. "But it will be an interesting experiment to see if we can fulfill your request."
"I was hoping you'd say that." The dwarf nearly cracked a smile. He didn't. But he at least stopped scowling for a moment.
"You'll have to deal with Izel when the time comes, however." The spider finished reading the last of the metal pumpkin barrels and turned to approach the dwarf. "It seems that, for the moment at least, the traditionalists are going to get there way."
"You're leaving?" There was something of shock in the dwarf's gravelly voice.
"For a little while. Too many untapped markets and suppliers topside. And I can't compete with every Meinarth that comes along without tapping a few of them. Besides... " Vondarien paused for a moment in nostalgic reflection. "I miss trees. Haven't laid eyes on one since I was a spiderling. But they were gorgeous."
* * * * *
The Drunken Drake Inn and Tavern was a quaint little hovel barely a mile inside of Belgrath near the Gates of Irithul. It was mostly inhabited by foreign visitors, cheap mercenaries, and predacious ne'er-do-wells. At one table a dwarf and an orc were arm wrestling while another dwarf was taking bets on who would win. Sitting alone not far away was a drow prostitute show off her wares. The bar was divided into two sections, a higher counter on one side for taller clients and a lower counter on the other side fit for shorter races such as dwarves and halflings. At the tall bar a group of well drunk humans were getting rowdy and doing their best to sing some old human folksong about a quest for an emerald sword. But it wasn't a very pretty rendition.
"FOR DER KING! FOR DER LANSH! FOR DER MOOOOOOUUUUNTINSH!
FOR DER GREEN VALLEYSH WHERE DRAGOOONSH FLLYYYYYYY!!!..."
One dwarf at shorter side of the bar, minding his own business and trying to enjoy a few drinks without listening to that racket had actually stopped his ears with bottle corks. While most other patrons were content to let the drunken revelers have their fun.
It was amidst this scene that Vondarien descended the stairs in the back of the room. Sure, he could have walked on the walls or the ceiling. But he'd gotten used to imitating the locomotion and mannerisms of humanoids. It did much to put them at ease. And humanoids at ease made for better business partners and allies than nervous ones. Unless of course hostile negotiation tactics were called for.
He was wearing a sort of collared vest of dark blue leather over his midsection with many pockets and several satchels strapped tightly to the main body of the garment. He had a wrist crossbow secured to the tarsus of each of his two front most legs with a quiver of bolts at his back just above his abdomen. And a slingshot holstered below his main body segment within easy reach of his pedipalps. The alchemist was ready to begin his journey.
Still he was hesitant. He would miss Belgrath and Izel and all of his customers. He decided to have a drink before he set out into the wider world of Arethil. So he went over to the bar and hopped up on to one of the stools at the taller side of the bar, squatting rather than actually sitting upon it. This gave one of the humans quite a fright apparently, causing their horrible vocal stylings to disintegrate into much less rambunctious and quieter chatter.
"YESH! I AM AT WARRIOR! I'LL FOOOOLLOOOW ME -Aaagghhh!"
"Hey! Follow yer arse? What er ya talking about? It'sh follow ma waey!"
"I didn't even shay that ya blockhead!"
"Who you calling a blockhead yewwwww orn'ry git?!"
"Who ya calling ornery? I'm jusht trying ta shing a shong..."
This seemed to please many of the patrons, and won some good will from even the bartender; a bald headed and beardless old dwarf with a bushy unibrow who looked almost like he himself was made out of stone. He laughed and approached the Portiid.
"Tell you what, just for that first rounds on the house."
Vondarien nodded appreciatively and ordered a mug of ale. When his drink arrived however he produced a small white cube, not unlike a lump of sugar, and dropped it in. The drink immediately began to fizzle and froth until the entire mug had been converted from regular ale into a thick purple sludge. This added proteins and essential vitamins to the drink, turning it into a full meal. Albeit one that got you a bit tipsy. It would also aid digestion. For dwarven brewing techniques, as Vondarien discovered in The Mountain Rose many years ago, were not always friendly to Portiid stomachs.
As the talking spider slowly slurped his last meal/drink in Belgrath he reflected on his preparations. It wasn't orthodox, him setting out like this. It wasn't proper. If he'd meant to do things right, he'd have brought more flasks, a retort, a calcinator, an alembic, a wagon or two filled with supplies, products and laboratory essentials. He'd have hired guards. He'd have picked a single destination and planned a route. He'd have withdrawn more from his accounts. And he certainly wouldn't have spent his last night in Belgrath in some dank flophouse near the western gates.
No he wasn't acting like the canny businessman that he had made himself out to be when he sold the idea to his friends and partners around the city. He was in fact acting like a naive young idealist who dreamt of becoming a hero, seeing the world, and making a name for himself across all of Arethil. Even now he was lingering in The Drunken Drake when he could have been starting his journey. It was like he was waiting to meet his first adventuring companion at the start of some old fable.
