BECMI Chapter 26 – Elven Hospitality

All the watching dwarves were silent as he eventually swallowed. He turned his eyes to me in surprise and not a little wonder. “That were her third shot,” he announced to all of them, his voice a little hushed. “That be what a drink tastes like to an elf, aye?”

I shook my head and pointed at the flagon in front of him. “No, elder. Take a good proper dwarven draw of your flagon, now.”

He eyed it carefully, and then in one smooth motion, swept it up and poured it down his throat, emptying half of it in one practiced go.

His eyes almost popped out again. A second later, he was bent over double, spewing the drink on the floor, while the dwarves all around exclaimed in horror at the waste of good Ammaster’s!

He set the flagon back on the table as he came up slowly, wiping his beard and staring at the flagon like it was poison. “That, that were… that were like cold piss on rocks,” he agreed with me, both of our heads nodding slowly. He shuddered and let go of the tankard, shaking his head slowly. “No hard feelings, lass, and that, that were a gift to taste the sip, aye and well enough. But how long before I can drink proper again?” he asked urgently.

“A few minutes, no more,” I assured him quietly. “But before you do…”

I flicked a bottle out of nowhere, fluted green glass done smoothly. Two more of the shot glasses cleaned themselves out, and I popped the cork and poured a dash into both of them. I slid one across the table to him, and he eyed me only a moment before taking it up with me.

“Sip it down, wash it around the mouth twice, and swallow,” I encouraged him, raising my shot to him. “To the vines of the hills,” I toasted him.

“To the vines!” he agreed somberly, and matching me, drained it swiftly dry as all watched us.

This time, he closed his eyes, although the tensing of his shoulders indicated his surprise as he deliberately followed my orders.

We swallowed almost in tandem. He didn’t open his eyes as he put the shot glass down. “I’ve no words to describe what I be tasting, lass,” he finally admitted.

“The heart is blackberries from a dry hillside, with plenty of sun. The soil has high acidity, raising the alcohol levels. The minerals contribute to those flavors of bananas, lemons, and melon, while the fertilizer adds in that subtle zing of mild peppers, applewood smoke, and a touch of cedar. Of course, the oak of the barrels comes through clearly, and the charring of them was just a touch on the heavy side for the balance.”

He opened his eyes as I pulled out a larger glass, and poured out a nice draw, sliding it over to Revered Korgil. “Drink as a dwarf drinks.”

He picked it up, sniffed it once, and blinked. “It’s got a bite to it, lass,” he noted.

“Twenty-six percent alcohol.” The hallmaster blinked, staring at the shot in his hand. “Go ahead.”

He tossed it back confidently, swirling it around his mouth, then swallowing loudly. “Like a fruity grape drink, with a bit of a kick,” he admitted, shaking his head.

“With twice the kick of Ammaster’s. This is a mild elven wine. The serious stuff will have your eyes spinning in your head after a flagon there.” I set the bottle in the middle of the table and came out with another one, this one clear glass and looking like it was filled with water. “Have you ever had elven Pure Spring?” I asked archly, and they could only look at one another and shake their beards.

There were a bunch of very curious eyes as I popped up a dozen shot glasses, and poured them all out. “There’s only one flavor to this, elders, so go ahead.”

Eager hands reached out to take one of the samples, pausing as I lifted it. “To those who went before us,” I invoked solemnly, and drank it down. The dwarves repeated, and did the same.

There was an outbreak of gasping breaths, beating on chests, wheezing, and tears spontaneously erupting from the eyes and snot from the nose. I let a single tear run down my face as the red-faced dwarves gasped and wiped at their faces dramatically, looking quite composed next to them all.

“That flavor is . Pure Spring is blessed only by the tears of elven women who have lost sons, fathers, and husbands,” I said quietly, all the dwarves going very quiet at that. “An elven commander will take a drink before he fights a major battle, to know the price of what he is fighting for.”

The dwarves could only remain silent as I collected the shot glasses, cleaned them, and then flicked them away silently.

“Lass, a question, if I may,” the captain, Hrogi, found the nerve to ask into the quiet. He was of the Wurhelm, a clan very focused on military matters and the martial safety of the dwarves. “You are definitely an elf, but you hold the accent of a native of Zanzyr.”

I could sense the air in the hall immediately cool. “My father is indeed a native of Transyvia, a principality of Zanzyr, although I was not born nor truly raised there, Captain. Is there an issue with his homeland?” I inquired calmly.

There were grunts and murmurs all around at my admission. “So, you’ve not heard of the Years of Infamy?” he asked me strongly.

“Those are the years revolving around the plague the dwarves brought to Zanzyr?” I asked him archly.

Oh, wasn’t that poking a sore spot. The dwarves all around me immediately bridled. “Lies and more lies!” the captain growled, supported by ALL the dwarves there, even the hallmaster. “We no more spread that plague...” he began angrily.

“Captain.” The sheer ice in my voice stopped him in mid-tirade.

That absolutely shut every single dwarf in that room up completely. “What?” Revered Korgil managed to say into the shocked silence, all of them gaping at me.

“I specifically warded myself against disease when coming here,” I said calmly, unruffled and deadly serious. “The plague is a known thing, and dwarves carry it.” I reached out and pointed, and a dozen dwarves of the more than fourscore in the hall lit up with gentle white fires. “Those of your number actively carry the plague. You, please. Step forward, and show us your teeth.”

The stout and grim dwarf glaring at me looked even grimmer as the press parted for him, and he shouldered his way forward. He looked at me, then at his captain and the cleric.

“Your teeth, corporal?” the captain asked, frowning direly.

The dwarf spread his lips in the biggest grimace that he could, everyone leaning forward for a better look.

“He’s been drinking a bad lot of mead!” Revered Korgil spoke up, and some of the tension in the air evaporated. “He’s got a trace of blackgum! Nothing a good stiff ale won’t take care of in a day or two!”

His cheerful tone started to change matters, but the icy look on my face made his face falter even as the dismissive laughter and scorn started to return.

There was cold loathing in my voice, and the curt gesture I sent at the dwarf had him stepping smartly away from me before he could stop himself. The dwarves’ rising mocking laughter faded completely.

“We do not know the origins of the plague. It is plain that it is not something devised by the Rockborn, as that is not how the Rockborn fight,” I went on coldly. “But it IS known that the plague has little to no effect on the Rockborn at all, and they can carry it without the slightest idea they have it. Even in its most severe form, the Rockborn can cleanse it away with a few drinks of good strong alcohol.

“That is not true of those who live in the lands of Zanzyr, nor among the elves who dwell far underground, Rockborn,” I said grimly, and my expression brooked no retort to what I was saying.

“In the lands of Zanzyr, the plague swells in power in reaction to the magic there. It affects young and old alike, spreading on the breath and by drink, such as among common flagons in a tavern or alehall not cleansed properly.

“The Rockborn are strong against disease in general, with the earthpower that is with you every step you take on stone and soil. But humans and elves are not so blessed.

“It is properly believed that this plague was specifically made to kill humans and elves, and dwarves were chosen as its carriers, for the other races that can carry it, primarily the orcs and goblins, do so far more obviously.

“That thing you dismiss as a mild gum disease from rotted mushroom spores in your mead killed over twenty-six thousand Zanzyrans, and over ten thousand of the shadenelves who dwell deep in the earth.” The dwarves around me were completely silent as they stared at me in disbelief. I whipped up illusions of the afflicted, elven and human babies strangling to death with black mouths in their cribs, old folks spitting out pieces of blackened lungs from their mouths, and mounds of the plague-ridden death with blackened faces and teeth rotting in moldering lips, not even the flies gathering to them as they were stacked up by veiled faces to burn.

Even the disbelieving dwarves could not help but be moved by those images. There was fighting godless wizards and lying humans, and seeing… this.

“I do not defend anyone’s deeds before or after the truth of what was known happened, Rockborn of Rukheim. But you are a noble people, and this is not how you do battle.

“However, you must know that regardless of how poorly the Zanzyrans treated you, you killed tens of thousands of them without raising an axe or hammer to do so, and you carry that plague with you still.

“ It is black and rotting death, choking on your lungs falling apart inside you, to the shadenelves and the humans and elves of Zanzyr, and they will happily see you all dead rather than be subjected to it again, as you would happily wipe them from the world were they to threaten the same to you.”

There was dead silence for a minute, before Revered Korgil spoke up, “The plague has never been reported outside Zanzyr…” he began, trying to refute what I had said.

“Zanzyr is a magical land,” I replied simply. “There are powers in Zanzyr that allow magic to do things found nowhere else on this world. The Darkrot flares to fell and terrible life there. Likewise, down in the deep places of the world, there are energies there that are not found on the surface, as you know in the depths of your bones.” I looked around, and they could only nod in agreement. “Dwarves, orcs, and goblins passed the plague to the shadenelves there, and it cost them over ten thousand lives as well.

“If you wonder why the elves of the deeps are not friendlier to those who understand what it means to dwell in stone, and why they do not trade more with your people,” I pointed at the corporal, who flushed, “the merest hint of those black gums will condemn an entire dwarven company to death in their eyes, and they will purge every belonging in fire after they slaughter the dwarves there. Even now, with what little random contact is made, all things that come in contact with dwarves or orcs or goblins are ritually cleansed, and the slightest hint of darkened gums will start a wave of eradication.

“In Zanzyr, dwarves are plague-bearers, and are treated as such. The truth that you plague-bearers, and that the plague , is one of the grimly horrible truths of a very bad situation. As if some great power wants to put at odds those who should instead be great friends and allies, and it has worked .”

“Is not Sidheduiche a magical land?” another dwarf spoke up quickly. “The forest rose from nowhere in no time at all, and all who go there speak of the thickness of the magic there!”

I inclined my head. “But the dwarves do not speak of the earthpower there, do they?” I inquired of him.

He hesitated. “No, but…!”