Tim frowned into his tankard as he took another drink of the True Brew of the dwarves.
Nothing was going to plan anymore.
“How’s it goin’, Tim?” The Great Deceiver asked.
Tim put on his brightest and most winning smile. “Great, Pete! Congratulations on getting your Title!”
He couldn’t believe it. How could the Gods possibly favour this dwarf? The rest of the room raised their tankards in a toast, and Tim shivered as smelled the telltale rank odour of lemons from many of them. The rot was spreading fast.
A few months ago, barely one in ten dwarves would have been willing to admit their attachment to this radler. Now, nearly a third of the camp was drinking it nightly.
It had been going so well! He needed to act more decisively now that his plan had ended in failure. He’d initially been using only his new Blessings to distract and trick Pete into giving up all his silver. However, he’d eventually decided to use his Title Milestone, which went far beyond a simple swindle. Tim pulled up his Abilities and read them over for the hundredth time, trying to see if there was any possible way to deal with the current situation.
[Distraction] – A spirit divided is ripe for the taking. Your ill-gotten gains will cause problems unless you can keep attention elsewhere. Increases the chance that a mark will become distracted when they’re talking to you. Keep in mind that you may need to set up the distraction yourself.
This Ability is always available.
This Ability is always available.
[Lost Reason] – If you can’t find a fool to rob, make your own! While you’re working a mark, you can reduce their wisdom by four for an hour. Successive uses on the same mark will increase the duration of the effect up to a maximum of eight hours.
This Ability can be used once a day.
Tim shivered as he read his first Milestone; it was truly powerful. It explained why so many classes based off of Nether were restricted or banned outright.
He’d been so close! Pete had trusted him, even though that fool knew the reason he was here in the first place! Pete didn’t even realise the dangers posed by one of the Beardless. Everyone knew a beardless dwarf was one with nothing to lose; to trust one was madness!
Tim growled softly as Sam and Balin lifted Pete into the air and threw him face-first into the cake. Everything about Pete was simply undwarvish. From his hatred of beer, to his lack of respect towards Doctor Opal or Speaker John – he treated them like friends or colleagues! The worst part was that they seemed to humour him; Speaker John had even tried a radler! Tim could understand Doctor Opal being seduced – her weakness to sweets was legendary. But Speaker John was one of the most respectable and most dwarvish dwarves Tim had ever met, and even he was being swayed by the Great Deceiver!
Tim didn’t buy Pete’s lies about amnesia. Pete knew too many things to be truly addled in the head – too many new and dangerous things. As a Titled [Swindler], Tim could tell Pete was covering something up. Something big. Tim would reveal it to everyone, and Pete would be outed for the monster he was! ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭•𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚•𝕟𝕖𝕥
How, though? Pete no longer needed to give him silver, and recently, Balin never gave them any time alone together. He was also being run ragged by Grim, who had him on errands constantly. Tim sat and thought for a while as the party devolved into the regular brawl.Perhaps it was time to do something a little more… direct. Tim looked down at the object clutched in his hand. Yes… when the time was right, he would use it and see if Pete was truly a dwarf.
“Hey Tim! You want some of this cake?”
“Sure Pete! I’d love some, give me a moment!” Tim got up and put on his best smile. A lying smile to go and greet the biggest liar in the camp. It was pure poetry – it was justice.
It was time for my final Blessing party! Apparently, there isn’t too much of a difference between a Title party and a Blessing party. Titled people are given a lot of respect, and the Blessing party is one of the last opportunities for their friends and family to dunk on them. Hence why I was currently face first in a chocolate cake while someone dumped beer on my head.
I was a slimy, chocolaty, gooey mess. It was marvelous. I could tell a few people still didn't really like me, but I do think I’ve managed to fit in.
“Ya love puttin yer foot in yer mouth, dontcha Pete? Have some boot to go with it!” My thoughts were interrupted as Sam coated a thankfully clean looking boot in cake and then jammed it into my mouth. It tasted like metal, leather, and a rather delicious almond cream. Bran had outdone himself.
I took a moment to appreciate it as I grabbed a handful of chocolate cake and crammed it into Sam’s beard. “At least I can appreciate a good dessert. Everyone can tell from your music that you have no taste!”
The rest of the cake clattered to the ground as I launched myself at him. Sam dodged out of the way, and we took a moment to stare each other down. One of the dwarves in the crowd looked forlornly at the cake on the floor and then at the empty dessert plate in his hands. Oopsie.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!”
“Hit him with a fist Sam-pler!”
“Give him the ol’ one, two!”
The crowd got worked up as we began to circle each other. I think I saw Balin collecting bets on who would win. I threw the first jab, and Sam blocked it with his arm.
“You’ll need ta do better than that, Pete!” He cried, as he drove a foot at my shins. I sidestepped and tried to sweep his feet out from under him, but Sam was solid as an oak. He came at me in a rush, and I threw a series of jabs at his weaving head. I even connected on his chin with a little uppercut.
Then we were clinching, and it was a mad scramble until he shoved some cake into my nose. I jumped back and slipped on a piece of cake just as he swung a haymaker that brushed past my head. My legs came up as I went down and one of my feet nailed Sam right between the legs. There was a general *groan* from the entire room as Sam collapsed with a wheeze of “Foul!”.
It took a moment for everyone to realize we weren’t getting up again. I’d rung my head pretty well on the wooden floor, and Sam's other head had been rung pretty well too. Some hands propped us up and carried us over to a bench. After a few moments of staring daggers at each other I took a quavering step up onto a nearby table.
“Sam has challenged me with this boot!” I declared, holding up the offending article of clothing. “So, I challenge him in turn! We shall both drink from a boot, and may the best dwarf win! A drinking contest is a-foot!”
The room all cheered. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Wreck roll her eyes, but she was the only one sober enough to catch my excellent wordplay. Soon a second boot was acquired as Sam and I were seated on the opposite sides of a table. Apparently, the boots belonged to Grim, and he had agreed to allow us the use of them for pranks this evening. The fool!
“Do you understand the rules, Sam?” I bared my teeth in a malicious grin. Behind me, Balin was massaging my shoulders and there was a general clamour as a dozen dwarves began to cheer for me.
“Child’s play!” Wreck was currently on Sam’s side, and it looked like she was examining the boot for tricks. Where was the trust? Sam also had a cheering section, and his looked a little bigger than mine. Ah well, its not the size that counts. It’s winning.
“We fill the boots to the top, and then each drink. Winner is the one that drinks the fastest with no spillage!”
“I’ve been drinkin’ beer longer than you’ve been alive whippersnapper!”
“Too bad yer age has made you infirm, old man!”
“I’ll empty this boot and shove it in yer rear before you even get halfway!”
“I think you’ll choke on it! Too bad all your piping hasn’t left you with better plumbing!”
“Some [Alchemist], the only thing you ever make is bad puns!”
“Better than a [Maestro] who only ever mastered his own instrument!”
I held out the boot toe first and nodded at Sam. He lifted his boot and we held the tips of the toes together. Speaker John materialized out of the crowd, his plaited beard swinging, and he placed his hand on our boot tips.
“On your marks! Get set! Go!” He raised his hand and we raised the boots to our lips.
Sam and I both began to chug as fast as we could. I gave it a moment and then slowed down. I wanted to relish the moment, because…
I knew the trick to drinking from a boot.
Sam was so engrossed in his drinking that he didn’t see me slow down and begin to rotate my boot as I drank. You see, drinking from boots is an art form that started among the nobility in England. They would competitively drink from riding boots at their hunting lodges. The practice was picked up as a hazing ritual by the German Military before it eventually became an Oktoberfest tradition. Obviously, they don’t use real boots anymore, but the technique is the same.
Once you start drinking from the boot, a small vacuum begins to form in the toe. At the same time, an air bubble begins to travel up the boot from where you are drinking. When the air bubble reaches the toe, the vacuum releases and all the fluid in the toe washes out in an instant, creating a wave of beer.
What that all meant was that I got to thoroughly enjoy the moment an eruption of beer smashed into Sam’s face. He sputtered and coughed, his eyes blinking furiously as the beer drenched him. Meanwhile, I took my time slowly rotating the boot as I drank. The trick was to turn the toe roughly ninety degrees just as the air bubble hits the vacuum. I pulled it off with long practiced aplomb, and enjoyed the glower that Sam was sending my way as I slowly finished off the boot.
I slammed my boot on the table with an “Aahhh” of appreciation. Not of the Beer, which was still shitty, but of my sweet, sweet, lemony victory. My cheering squad was going wild. Sam’s was too, but mostly in mockery. Dwarven fans are a fickle thing.
“You thought you could defeat the master?” I asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Ah, shut it!” Sam grumbled.
Then we shook hands and grinned. I grabbed a hunk of cake off the floor and Sam got ready to dodge, but instead I turned to a quiet corner of the room. I’d noticed a friend staying out of the party, and we couldn’t have that!
“Hey Tim! You want some of this cake?”
“Sure Pete! I’d love some, give me a moment!” Tim got up and put on his best smile.
I shoved some cake into it.
That was when the food fight started.