The Braided Wanderer and the Dwarf was a legendary morganite-bound codex. The written portion consists of a 363 page alternate history entitled The Braided Wanderer and the Dwarf, authored by Vutok Boltheld. It asks the question, "What if a foot race held by the Lanterns of Clouting in Goodgild as part of The Celebration of Corridors in the late autumn of 67 had unfolded differently?" The overall text emphasizes the value of loyalty. The writing is forceful. Overall, the prose is masterful.
So I was browsing the legends of one of my worlds, and the title of this particular book captured me enough to attempt a story about it. The only specifics I've brainstormed so far are that this "Braided Wanderer" will be the protagonist, but aside from that most details are hazy. However, I do have the prologue down, so I'll post that for now and hope that I have more to show in the nearer-than-not future.
The Braided Wanderer and the Dwarf
Prologue
It was just a quarter past one in the morning when Vutok Boltheld seated himself at his study in the Library of Abbeys, the crown jewel of the otherwise mediocre dwarven fortress of Goodgild. Knowledge and prose from the greatest minds of Orubthadar’s history lined its shelves, and even the haughty elves of the Iferi Avera forests had a begrudging respect for the fortress on account of this (much as they despised giving credit to an establishment constructed almost entirely of shredded tree corpses). Vutok breathed in the musty air through his nostrils. The scents of the library always induced an odd blend of emotions in the old dwarf. Bliss, comfort, despair, and anxiety all seemed to mix into the layers of dust covering the library’s vast vaults of information. He took a swig from his dwarven ale and set the copper mug down on the desktop. Pulling out the drawer from under his desk, he grabbed one of his kea bone matches from its box and ignited it, placing the flame tenderly onto the beeswax candle at the side of his workspace. The light set eerie shadows dancing across the near wall, and he jumped as he suddenly heard a scurrying from the hall outside. Vutok was briefly reminded of the tales of bogeymen and night trolls that his mother told him as a boy to keep him from misbehaving. He snorted and shook his head. How old was he now, one-hundred forty? Forty-five? He had trouble keeping track these days. In any case, far too old to let fairy tales designed to frighten small children distract him from his work. The scurrying had merely been a rat, or a cap hopper come up from the caverns. Returning his mind to the task at hand, he grabbed a piece of grootslang parchment scroll from the desk drawer and dipped his quill pen into the jar of squid ink before him. Tonight was the night he would begin the story he had wanted to tell for many years. How would the infamous foot race of 67 have unfolded differently if, hypothetically, one of its competitors wasn’t a dwarf?
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