Beefs and Breads: A Cozy Dwarf Tale - Book 3: Chapter 0: Prologue: The Princess is in Another Castle

The alembic fizzled and popped behind the glass shield, then turned a horrifying black colour. Toxic fumes erupted from its mouth in a cloud of smoke. Tourmaline Barnes sighed and activated [Clean Air], whisking the dangerous aethers away. Another failure, and she’d been so hopeful this time.

She wiped some sweat from brow, and adjusted the mask that kept her beard out of all the dangerous chemicals in her workspace. Not that there were any errant bottles to be knocked over. Tourmaline was a fastidious [Toxicologist] and wouldn’t allow anything so vulgar as disorganization keep her from perfecting her work.

The alembic hissed, like a Stonesnake trapped in a dive. Tourmaline activated [Safety Shield] just before it burst, but the surge of volatile liquid was contained by the large tank she used for dangerous experiments.

That was different from the previous attempts, and Tourmaline took down careful notes of everything she saw. The scent, the colour, the depth that it scored the glass – all of it was useful in her quest to save her kin. She would have a cure to the poison killing her mother within the decade, she was sure of it.

If only there weren’t so many blasted distractions!

Speaking of which, there was a knock on her door. Tourmaline let whoever it was wait outside as she swept and cleaned, ensuring everything was back in its correct place. She then took a moment to arrange her hair, remove her beard net, and apply some scent. Nobility had to keep up appearances after all.

She glanced in the mirror, giving herself a once-over. The dwarfess that looked back at her was a classic beauty, with silver hair hanging from her head down to her waist in shining drills. Her silver beard was festooned in golden ornaments studded with her namesake tourmalines. A serious gaze set in soft features, and sweeping eyebrows. While she hated the necessity, she could at least acknowledge that she was a fine specimen of dwarf. The image was only partly ruined by the dirty lab coat.

Only when she was properly dressed in a shimmering set of mithril half-armour and a silver gown did she open the door, revealing a patiently waiting gnomish [Courier].

“Toxicologist Tourmaline? I have a message for you.” He said, bowing at the waist.

Tourmaline nodded imperiously, accepting the small slip of paper that the [Courier] pulled out of nowhere. After reading it, she gave a few brief words of thanks, then sent him on his way.

She followed a moment later, into the drafty halls of Castle Barnes. Now there was a misnomer! The castles within the White Wall of Kinshasa were nothing like the human constructions of towering bricks and mortar. From its grand entrance in the Court of Nobles to its farthest corner, Castle Barnes was a labyrinth of solid stone tunnels snaking deep through the Erd. Their walls were reinforced by magic and patrolled by the finest of [Knights] and [Speakers]. Not even a cat could get into Castle Barnes.

Of course, as befitted the station of one of Kinshasa’s oldest and most powerful clans, the walls were not simply plain stone. Every centimeter had been artistically carved, covered in frescos, hung with paintings, or draped with tapestries. The floors were plush patterned carpet woven by the finest beastkin [Artisans], and kept painstakingly clear of dust. Solstones lit the winding space with warm light and wide rooms branched off here and there, providing everything from eating space to physical training equipment to a hot-spring room the size of a hitball field.

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And yet it was still drafty. And cold. The wind practically howled under her bedroom door some nights.

Tourmaline passed by a group of servants performing their duties under the watchful eye of a dwarfess [Butler]. They all gave appropriately low bows and held out their beards in respect. Tourmaline walked past without even glancing down at them.

She would have liked to chat, but long experience had taught her that all they had to offer were empty platitudes and fawning admiration.

She missed Minnova. She even missed the mine. She missed being WRECK.

Wreck didn’t have to bother with servants. Wreck didn’t need to ensure everything about her was perfect at all times. Wreck said what she wanted and everyone got out of the way. Wreck didn’t have to deal with nobles and all their minor hangers-ons and power-seekers.

Wreck was free. Tourmaline Barnes was a goat in a gilded kennel.

Tourmaline read over the note again. It had a few simple words written on it.

“Left for Kinshasa yesterday, arrival in three weeks.”

Tourmaline took a moment to listen for footsteps in the long stone hallway. Sound carried down these tunnels almost as easily as the draft. When she was sure she wouldn’t be rudely interrupted, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. In her mind’s eye she pictured the only real friend she’d ever had, Annie Goldstone; she was laughing. Annie was almost always laughing in her memories, or smiling. Never frowning or with the scrunched ‘I smell goatshit’ look that her Kinshasa acquaintances always had.

Tourmaline opened her eyes and considered the mark on the back of the card – a duck sitting on a pond. The [Detective] she’d hired in Minnova to keep an eye on her friends had been worth every penny. Through their reports she’d been able to capture a small taste of that life she once had. She’d laughed herself sick at the Ass-Blaster and promptly had a cask delivered to the castle. The head [Butler] had thrown a fit, but grandfather found it hilarious. She’d cried in fear when Balin left for the dungeon, then cried with relief when he came back a hero. She’d jumped for joy when she’d heard about Bran winning the contest to become Minnova’s top chef, and actually cheered when she’d learned of his engagement to Opal Sifsdotter. Then came rapid-fire news about the Thirsty Goat re-joining the guild of brewers, winning the Octamillenial Brewing Contest, and releasing two new brews to great acclaim.

Barista Brew and Liquid Gold, they were called. And a few pubs here in Kinshasa had already started to carry them, at great expense.

Every new letter came filled with emotions; joy, sadness, relief, and anger. Somewhere out there beyond the White Wall, life went on, and even if she couldn’t take part she could at least live vicariously through her letters. This time though, she crumpled the paper in her hand and dreaded what was to come – what her friends were walking into.

Over the past year Kinshasa had swelled with tourists, refugees from monster attacks, and minor nobles and adventurers eager to prove themselves at the Octamillenial. The city was a capped volcano, and there were many factions eager to see it blow.

There was the King, at odds with his Greybeards and according to grandfather, ready to flip the board and start over.

There were the young and iterant nobles, eager for their place in the lamplight and caring for nobody but themselves.

There was that rabble-rouser Harmsson and his council of merchants and concerned citizens, preaching about a ‘better way’.

Finally there were the usual unsavory elements, all salivating at the influx of the wealthy and vulnerable.

That didn’t even touch on the guilds, the chaos surrounding the various competitions, or the mounting pressure from the racial [Ambassadors].

Tourmaline looked at the wall, and through it to where she knew a wagon train had to be crawling slowly towards Kinshasa. Her voice was deep and husky, as she spoke a prayer. “Oh Annie. Pete. Balin. All of you, stay safe. May Aaron bless your path and the luck of Barck be with you.”

She could only hope they understood the seriousness of the situation, and were prepared for what was to come.