A warm glow filled the Gleeful Goblin, the light spilling out into the surrounding darkness. The pub was filled with the voices of men, dwarves, and even an elf or two. In one corner a rowdy know to human miners and builders won and lost small fortunes at the whim of a set of ivory dice. At every turn of luck, the men filled the air with their shouts of exuberance and surprise. A nearby table seated half a dozen elves, all dressed in brown or green clothing and smoking long, polished wooden pipes, vacant looks on their faces. Across the room, and decidedly separate from the wood-folk, a group of dwarves muttered to each other and glowered at the elves. Although the three raves were interspersed throughout the pub, the dwarves seemed loth to even speak to the elves, but preferred to glare at them from a distance. The elves maintained an air of detached indifference towards the dwarves, but it was unclear whether this was intentional or because of their strong moon-leaf. Behind the polished oaken bar, a diminutive, flush-faced man polished tin tankards with a damp wad of cloth and took orders from newcomers.
There was a disturbance at the gamblers’ table. Two of the miners stood up and started arguing loudly. The other gamblers watched in anticipation. A few of the elves turned their heads and watched with slightly amused expressions. The dwarves seemed to forget completely about the elves and looked around curiously, seeking the source of the commotion.
One of the miners, a burly, dark-haired man, pointed a massive, accusing hand at the other.
“Byron, you swindling scum!” he exclaimed.
Byron, who was much smaller, held up his hands in protest as he started to speak. The other miner cut him off.
“Don’t give me any of that!” He took two gigantic strides towards Byron, overturning an empty stool in the process. “We both know you’ve been cheatin’ me this entire match!”
By this time, the entire pub was silent, all waiting for what would happen next.
Byron took a step backwards, but not before a huge fist connected solidly with his cheekbone. He fell backwards, stunned, and landed on the floor. The other man took a menacing stride towards him, fist still clenched.
Byron rose to his knees, holding his head with his left hand. He started to reach for the dagger at his belt with his right hand, but thought better of it and stumbled out the pub door instead.
The silence persisted, and every eye turned to the other standing miner, waiting to see if he would pursue his opponent. After a moment’s indecision, he stomped moodily back to his table to resume his game. A few moments more, and the activity was in full swing, as if everyone had simply forgotten what had just happened.
Outside the Gleeful Goblin, Byron half-stumbled, half ran to a nearby oak. With one arm, he leaned against the tree, and with the other, he procured a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his throbbing nose. After a moment, he pulled it away and glanced at it in the light of a nearby lantern. Blood stained the soiled cloth. He groaned and slapped it back to his nose, tilting his head back. Well, at least nothing seemed broken. He was sure that he would know if something was. What was he thinking, trying to play that goon like a fool? Rolling his eyes, he reminded himself. The oaf had won four straight rounds, and the prospect of winning that much money was just too tempting.
Byron pushed against the tree with his arm and returned to his standing position. A pair of elves wandered out the doorway, their unsteady steps leading in the vague direction of the Yenãwa district, where most of the elves lived. Their moon-leaf gone, they would return to their lodgings and do whatever it was that elves did to occupy themselves.
Byron wondered for a moment how most elves spent their time. From what he had seen, it mostly involved getting smoking their strange pipes and writing flowery poetry about birds, trees, and whatever else the leaf-trance suggested to them.
His mind returned to the scuffle in the bar earlier. Gambling, bickering, and getting knocked down, it was all a part of a familiar pattern to him. He thrust his free hand into his pocket and produced five gilded silver coins, his “winnings” from the last game. It wasn’t a lot, but it would be enough for the next few days.
Byron gingerly pulled the handkerchief away from his nose. It had stopped gushing blood. He pocketed the handkerchief, sighing. He was, frankly, tired of the same routine. He had spent the last three days digging tunnels in the Dünost district, hoping that something new would interest him. Although it was new, he had to admit that chipping away at stubborn rock walls and getting bossed around by smelly dwarves half his size was hardly his idea of fun. It was certainly different, though, and that was all that had mattered then.
Byron glanced up at the waxing moon. It had been dark for close to an hour, and he needed a place to sleep for the night. He started walking towards the Commons district, hoping that he could find a room, or even a cot in a corner. As he walked, he decided that he was done with mining. For now, at least. This thought pleased him, and he looked forward to whatever new opportunities the next day held for him.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Byron exited the Commons office, all his previous elation gone. Apparently, a large group of travelling merchants had arrived that afternoon, and every room, bed, and square inch of floor was occupied. Bastards. The housing clerk was none too helpful either. She was a fluffy-headed young woman who had, in between playing with her hair and vainly trying to catch the bellboy’s attention, told Byron that he would have to find a room elsewhere.
Byron threw himself onto a nearby stone bench, at his wit’s end. He had not expected the Commons housing to be full, it never was at this time of year. During the winter, when roaming hunters and trappers sought refuge from the cold, the Commons might be full once or twice, but never in the summer.
Just as Byron was about to concede defeat and resign himself to sleeping in some park, he looked up. A dwarf walked out of the Commons office. He looked around, and seeing Byron, headed in his direction.
“That was one hell of a show you put on in the bar back there,” the dwarf said. Byron then recognized him as one of the dwarves from the Gleeful Goblin. He returned the statement with a blank stare.
The dwarf cleared his throat. “Excuse my rudeness,” he apologized. “I heard your dilemma,” he jerked his head towards the office “and I thought I could help you out.”
Byron continued to stare, uncomprehending. The dwarf did not seem to notice but continued talking. “I have quarters in Dunöst. I’d tolerate a guest if ye split the cost.” The dwarf tugged at his thick, braided beard as he waited for a response.
Just then did the dwarf’s generous offer strike Byron. He nodded, and held out his right hand to the dwarf, who grasped it firmly.
“All righ’ then!” The dwarf grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, as he vigorously pumped Byron’s arm. “It’s a deal! Name’s Falor, by the way.”
“Byron,” said Byron through gritted teeth as Falor released his arm. Byron felt his hand to make sure that none of the bones were still broken. He made a mental note not to offer handshakes to dwarves in the future.
Falor cheerfully started walking towards the courtyard’s large metal gates, which were kept ajar until the second night watch. “Me companions won’t be too disagreeable with a visitor. As long as they don’t think ye be an elf, that is!” Falor let out a hearty laugh. Byron followed, wondering what he had gotten himself into.