Beefs and Breads: A Cozy Dwarf Tale - Book 3: Chapter 7: The Mining Town of Gemena

After the wonder that was Minnova, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Gemena. My first sight of the city that’d been my home for the past year-and-a-bit had been from afar; a sea of houses and miniature figures dancing beneath eldritch purple light. Up close Minnova had been even more impressive, with massive walls and a cacophony of magical sights and sounds, chock full of people and bursting at the seams.

In Gemena we opened the door of a rather unimpressive stone shack and were met with an unadorned hole in the ground and utilitarian steps. Smooth stone walls lead down into the darkness, and we were forced to pull out lamps before descending. The air was dry and dusty with the scents of stone and soil.

It was a bit cramped in the tunnel, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Thankfully only the Goat crew had come down the tunnel, including Malt, Bran, and Opal. The various gnomish contingents were taking their time, wanting to get their larger caravans fully settled, or in Whistlemop’s case, getting set up to sell goods.

After a couple dozen more paces we came upon a massive steel door. Annie approached it and knocked, and a slit opened up halfway up, revealing a pair of beady eyes. Bright light poured out, along with the sounds of chatter and movement.

“Aye?” A gruff voice called out.

“Travelers from Minnova to Kinshasa.” Annie stated matter–of–factly. “There’ll be another couple groups along shortly. Also, one of us is a peddler and has goods for sale on the roadside.”

“Names?”

We went down the line saying our names, and when we were all done the slit slid shut again with a, “Wait.”

Time passed in silence for five minutes, I passed it shifting from side to side, but eventually I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What’re they doin’?” I whispered to Annie.

“They have someone with [Sense Lies] on the other side of that door. They’re checking our names against known criminals on the bounty board.” Annie whispered back.

“What if we have a way around [Sense Lies]?”

Malt cackled from behind us. “There’s definitely a [Whisperer] listening in on us, and a mage or [Graviturge] ready to blast us if we make one wrong move and Pete’s discussing a way around [Sense Lies]! This is going to be a fun trip!”

Annie sighed. “Not particularly, and unlikely with a group as large as ours. You’d need the right Title, the right Milestones, and there’s no guarantee that the person on the other side there wouldn’t have a way of countering your counter. Now shhh.”

My mouth snapped shut. The guards at the entrance to Minnova had been efficient and cordial, so this cautious heavy-handed approach was rubbing me the wrong way. Then again… we’d just been attacked by roaming monsters, and I knew for a fact that the bounty boards in the Adventurer’s guild were chock full at all times.

After another tense few minutes, the door made a grinding noise then swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. The dwarf on the other side actually reminded me a lot of Jack the [Goatboy]. He had the same general look about him, with plain leather armor rather than metal, a scruffy beard, and a distrustful squint. He also had that same southern drawl I’d come to associate with rural-dwarven. Or rather, that my Ability was translating as southern drawl.

“Come in all and welcome ta Gemena. I’m Gloin. Sorry fer tha rough welcome, but bandits ‘ave been a problem with all tha’ travelers headin’ into Kinshasa. If yer lookin’ fer an inn we’ve got a couple, but Digger’s Dive in tha eastern tunnels is best, and tha market is to tha south if’n ya need goods.”

The space we’d entered was an open cavern about ten meters to a side, containing what was essentially a mini-fortress against the far wall, much like the one we’d seen at the Manticore’s Gullet. Tall crenelated walls on either side created a perfect kill-zone, and I shuddered at the sight of the wicked ballistae and other machines of murder trained on us. There were about ten other dwarves in the room, each dressed much like Gloin, and they were all watching us like hawks.

“Thank you, Gloin.” Annie murmured, her eyes also trained on all the weapons aimed at us. “We’ll be staying for the night, then heading on in the morning.”

Gloin waved us on, but not before one of the other dwarves pointed at Johnsson’s Thirsty Goat branded hauberk and shouted, “Oy! I recognize that symbol! Are you lot with tha Thirsty Goat?”

We all turned to look at him in shock as Johnsson replied, “Aye!”

“I know that! Oy! You lot! These are tha winnin’ Brewers from Minnova!”

“Whazzat?” Another dwarf asked, peering down at us.

“They made the Ass-Blaster that Innkeeper Rosie has been makin’ hell about, and that Barber Brew tha Highwatch has been drinkin’!”

“Barista Brew ya idjit!” Gloin shouted, then turned a wide smile back on us. “Oy! You’re that crew! Me cousin says yer brew is a life saver on them thar long marches!”

“You… know us?” I hazarded.

“Aye! Tha peddlers have been passin’ through here bringin’ yer brews to Kinshasa! Right expensive, but somethin’ special! Most fun we’ve had in months, ain’t that right y’all?”

The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted from the edge of hostile to downright cordial as weapons were stashed, ballistae were raised, and several more scruffy nerf-herders descended to shake our hands and mingle.

We were roundly introduced to a multitude of names that my handy higher intelligence was more than capable of remembering. Yep, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Then there were the questions about Ass-Blaster and how and why we’d thought to change the Sacred Brew. The attitude here was quite different from in Minnova, and I found myself describing our ideas for brewing in as much detail as I could without Annie or Malt complaining. One of the guards even whispered to me that he was practicing brewing some of his own batch of Sacred Brew using a bootleg recipe. I told him to come find me later in the inn. Both so I could check the safety of his brew, and to give him some tips.

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Gloin decided he was going to personally escort the newcomers to the inn, and give us a tour at the same time.

“It’s different from Minnova, isn’t it.” Malt said as we began the trek through the eastern tunnels. “Do you like it?”

“I dunno what yer talkin’ about.” I replied innocently.

He reached over and poked me in the side. “You know damn well. Look at you, grinnin’ from ear to ear. This is what you really wanted, wasn’t it? Every dwarf brewing their own brews. Upending thousands of years of [Brewer] tradition.”

I shrugged. “The beer yearns to be free. The tyranny of the Brewer’s Guilds cannot last forever!”

Malt clasped his hand to his heart. “And here you were fighting so hard to get into that self-same guild! What, are you a [Whisperer] now? You can talk to tha brew? Know its wants and needs? No wonder you’ve got all these new brews! And here I thought you were simply a brewing prodigy!”

“Hah! Wait, can a [Whisperer] actually do that?”

“Why would I know? I’m just a tyrannical guild leader.”

“Bah! I know you like it too! You never struck me as the type to like complacency or stagnation. And the Sacred Brew has stagnated. Didja not see that at the contest? Rudd’s Red Rage Ale? Scented Ale? The desire for innovation is already there, it just needed a chance!”

Malt hung his head, and for the first time on this trip he really looked his age. “Aye… but it’s hard, Brewer Peter. Dwarves that last as long as I have usually don’t take many chances. They follow the same ruts until they’re worn into safe grooves. And Kinshasa will be worse. They’ve had more time than any of us to dig their holes.”

I grinned. “That’s why we have you along isn’t it? To run interference?”

Malt gave me a horrified expression. “I came to help you! You’re planning to throw me to tha shalesharks?”

Now it was my turn to be horrified. “The WHAT!?”

“You don’t know them? Nasty maw full of sharp shale teeth? Swim the stoney shores of Deepcore? They’re quite famous.”

I listened in horrified fascination as Malt began describing the many ways a school of enormous sharks with scales made of lead and maws full of jagged shale could eviscerate a dwarf. It made for a lovely backdrop as we walked the halls of Gemena.

Because that’s what Gemena really was, a bunch of halls. The best way to describe it would be an enormous space station – like deep-space nine – but underground and full of short hairy pungent alcoholics. On that note, maybe an anime convention would be a more apt comparison. There were corridors that met other corridors, each with signs in clear dwarven script pointing out directions. The air down here felt stale and dry, with a fairly consistent draft.

One piece of odd architecture that stood out were the small, waist height holes in the walls of all the corridors. They were just big enough for a dwarf to duck into, and were spaced at even intervals. Maybe they were designed to hold lamps? Many of them did indeed hold lanterns, just enough so that we could see without tripping over each other..

Sometimes a corridor would open up to a larger space similar to an atrium in a mall, with two or three floors of open walkways. Everywhere we looked there was a general bustle, but rather than gnomes, cats, dwarves, golems, cats, unigoats, and more cats, it was all dwarves. Most of them were dressed as miners, with the same hardhat and solstone combo I’d gotten used to back in the day.

They gave us curious looks as they passed, covered in dust and lugging pickaxes or other equipment. They tracked mud everywhere, and just as I was beginning to wonder how they kept the tunnels so clean, Gloin called for a halt.

“Cleaning golem, give it some space.” He pointed out a large brass automata up ahead. It took up nearly the entire tunnel and was slowly advancing on us, a whirring mop and other cleaning paraphernalia whirling about its boxy body. He then ducked into one of the holes in the wall and gestured for us to do the same.

It was a tight fit, but not as tight as it must’ve been for poor Richter, whose grunting and swearing was soon drowned out as the whizzing mops of doom trundled past us.

As soon as I could hear anything I called out, “You okay Richter?”

“Soaked me whole front! AHHH!! ME BOOKS!!”

“Sorry fer that youngin’, you can lay it ta dry at the Digger’s Dive. We’re almost there!” Gloin pointed ahead, to where the tunnel was once again opening to an atrium.

This time as we walked into the open space the air felt fresher, and we could see something other than dwarves in mining equipment. A contingent of Highwatch was settled at some tables in front of a literal hole-in-the-wall with a sign over it that read Digger’s Dive and a set of swinging doors. I even spotted a couple gnomes chatting with well-armoured mercenaries, and a trio of unarmored silken-suited fops that I immediately pegged as nobility. They were drunk off their rocker and chatting up a bevy of giggling dwarfesses while their plate-armoured guards looked simultaneously threatening and decorative.

Behind me, Aqua snorted.

Gloin pointed at the doorway. “Old Rosie’s in there. Just head on over and tell her ol’ Gloin sent ya! She’s got some thorns, but she’ll treat ya right. Now, if’n you’ll excuse me, I need ta get back to me post, and send some runners to tell folk there’s a [Peddler].”

“He’s a [Merchant] now, actually,” I pointed out. “Just look for the gaudy wagon that says Whistlemop’s Fineries.”

“Even better! Means he’ll ‘ave good wares! May Lunara bless yer night here in Gemena!”

And with that, Gloin was off, headed back through the winding tunnels to the entrance.

“Well, come on. I want to sleep in a real bed, and relax in front of a fire.” Annie squared her shoulders and walked through the swinging doors. I followed a beat after, trailed by the rest of the crew.

I swung through the doors just in time to dodge a tossed pan. A well-endowed elderly dwarfess with a salt and pepper beard and regent moustache was shouting and throwing kitchen implements at a younger dwarf. She wore a stained apron and studded leather armor, and had a tattoo on her right arm of a rose wrapped around some kind of monster skull. Her voice was deep and had the same deep-south accent I’d come to associate with rural Crackian.

“Get that Yearn be-damned paper outta here boy! I’ll not be havin’ you spread that tripe in this here inn!”

“But mum!”

“NO BUTS! NO SON O’ MINE WILL BE CAVORTIN’ WITH THA LIKES O’ HARMSSON AND HIS SLIMY SILVER-TONGUED [POLITICIANS]!”

The younger dwarf, who was wearing a similar apron and studded leather combo batted an incoming ladle out of the air with a cutting board. “They’re workin’ hard for our own good! Mica says they’re passin’ through Gemena next week, and I want to join ‘em!!”

“Is it too late to find another inn?” I whispered to Annie as a pie pan, including pie, sailed past to splatter against a wall.

Annie heaved a sigh. “No, but the beds had better be worth it.”

Malt snickered. “Depends on what you’ll be usin’ em for.”

Annie gave him some side eye that promised murder as an entire chair crashed against the ceiling. “Well, let’s get this over with. Hello! Are you Innkeeper Rosie?”

And so we were introduced to Rosie, [Innkeeper] of the Digger’s Dive and her son, Bando.

And a high-velocity roast. Name unknown.