Beers and Beards-Chapter 19Book 4: : Embassy Ball

I woke up in my room in Cascadia to the feeling of goat fur.

If you’ve never woken up with a goat, it’s a warm, cozy, smelly, horny thing to wake up to. And not in the good way.

“Ugh! Penelope! Gerrof me!” I groaned, trying to shove the surprisingly heavy unigoat out of my bed.

*Baaaah!!!!* [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] “Stop hogging the blankets!”

She used her pointy horn to grab my blanket and pull it over her body, then curled into it. That left me cold, exposed, and cranky.

Not the best way to start the first day at my new job.

“Friggin’ fraggle rockin’ Yearn bedamned goat.” I grumbled, pulling myself out of bed. I made my way to the hot spring and lay in the hot water where I was soon joined by Balin and Annie.

“Good morning, Mr. Ambassador,” Annie said, cheerfully. “Are you ready for the busy day ahead?”

“I hope so,” I sighed. “I need to meet with the embassy staff, then start putting out feelers into the local dwarves for people interested in learning how to brew. I also need to talk to Joseph about Berry, has Balin explained about Joseph?”

“Aye,” Annie groaned. “Another one of you??”

“I mean, there are eight. That makes… half that we know now? Given the quests that Solen, or maybe Aaron have been giving me, I’m most worried about their Chosen.”

Annie eyed me quizzically. “You didn’t mention any quests from them.”

“I’m still not sure it was from them. And besides, I turned ‘em down.”

“Don’t your ‘quests’ give incredible rewards? Why would you turn them down? What were they for?”

“To kill the Kings of Crack and Awemedindand.”

I sank deeper into the water and bubbled while Annie hyperventilated, and Balin gawped.

“Anyways, I’m off. Wish me tha’ luck o’ Barck.” I said, popping to my feet and splashing water everywhere as I waltzed over to grab my towel. “I should be fine today, Balin, if you lot want to start explorin’ tha’ Dungeon.”

“I hope Barck eats your beard!” Annie shouted after me. I tossed her a rude little gesture as I made my way back to my room and put on my good armour. A quick meal in the Liminal Inn – scrambled eggs with beer sausage and beer gravy – and I was ready for the day.

—

I, in fact, was not ready for this; it was way too early in the week for this shit.

I stared out over the sea of well-dressed well-to-dos, and it felt like every eye in the room swiveled to stare right back at me.

I was too much of a raging extrovert to be intimidated by mere crowds and attention. No, it was the sheer reverence I could feel that was giving me the ‘ol heebee jeebees. ȓáΝꝋBËȿ

I shuffled uncomfortably and looked for the door. It was right there. I could just leave.

But today was a party to greet the new Beer Ambassador, and everybody who was connected to the embassy was invited. The Crackian embassy was in The Roots, which was a limestone cave system that ran directly beneath Tree. It was nowhere near the size of Crack or Kinshasa, and was closer to something like the Horne Lake cave system back on Vancouver Island.

Thankfully it was decidedly less wet, since the local dwarves had set up sluices, runoffs, and various other bits of plumbing to carry water away from the caves.

The embassy itself kept a mostly skeleton crew, with the Ambassador, a half-dozen clerks, a [Butler], some maids, and a small collection of soldiers. Yes, there were now two Ambassadors from Crack. The actual Ambassador, Otto Rocksmasher, a balding and debonair black skinned dwarf from Kinshasa who looked like Mr. T – to the T, nyuck, was still head of the diplomatic mission; I was just the beer Ambassador.

Looking around at all the Kinshasa expats, I could see mostly dwarves and gnomes, but there were also decidedly more humans, elves, and beastfolk than I’d ever seen in Crack. They mingled happily with the dwarves and gnomes, cheerfully chatting away in perfect dwarven rather than the ubiquitous common tongue.

“We’re so thankful you were able to come, Your Excellency.” Otto’s academy trained voice came from beside me, his cheerful tone pushing aside my rising anxiety.

“Of course, Yer Excellency.” I said, swiftly switching into businessman mode. I’d stood in front of the King and all of Kinshasa. I could handle being the center of attention as the Forefather of Brewing. “Tha King asked, and I provided. I’m happy to provide brewin’ lessons fer the citizens of Crack no matter where they may be. Oh, and Pete’s fine; we’ll be working together for a while, methinks.”

“Haw haw,” Otto laughed. “Here in Tree, you’ll see more than just the dwarves of Crack! We’ve got conclaves from tha’ Northern Kingdoms, and tha Southern States. And you can call me Otto!”

“Hmm… then tell me, Otto. Are they likely to react badly to the changes we’re makin’ to the Sacred Brew?” I asked, glancing back at all the faces turned my way with a bit more worry. Could there be hidden Master Brewers amongst them? Ready to pounce?

“Naw. They all have embassies in Kinshasa too y’know. Every dwarf on Erd knows who you are and what you’ve done. There’s a few bitter holdouts, but none of them are as bitter as these wondrous sours of yours!” He laughed, holding up a genuine Minnova Barck’s Beer Brawl Whistlemug.

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“Eh, Pot Corporation does most of the good sours these days.” I muttered, self deprecatingly.

“Aye, but we all know it was your idea.” He patted me on the back. “Now, howsabout I walk you around and introduce you to some folk. You’ll be working close with ‘em while you get set up. How long do you think that’ll take?”

We began to mingle throughout the room, greeting various diplomats and Crackian tourists and immigrants, while doing our best to avoid being splashed by cheerfully raised tankards.

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I thought about it for a while, and ran some [Mental Math] and [Flash of Insight] to help come up with the required numbers.

“Honestly, I think it’ll take at least a year. If I’m settin’ up a brewery that’s also meant ta serve as a training facility, while also doing soirees and meeting folk, it’ll be a year at the minimum. I’ll also need lots of space, preferably above ground, with room for plantin’.”

The ambassador’s moustache twitched. “Well now, that’s no time at all!”

“I work quickly.” I grinned. “And it’s nothing new. It’ll be my third time in the past five years.”

“Phew. I’ve heard tell of some craftsman that don’t change their tools in centuries, and you’ve had to setup a full new system three times? You have been a busy dwarf! Guess that explains why you’re the best brewer in Crack!”

I rubbed the back of my neck as a nearby table of dwarves and their elfess companion raised their beers and loudly toasted ‘the best brewer in Crack.’

Gods, I was never going to get used to that.

“And here we have someone you’ll be seeing a lot.” Otto said, pulling me from my reverie.

It was the scent of onions that clued me in before I ever saw them. Oh say it isn’t so!

But it was! At the table were two dwarves, a beastfolk, and a giant. One of the dwarves was a greybeard in the black clothes of a Master Brewer, while the other wore black leather armour with gold trim. The beastfolk was wearing a cream coloured elven style sarong, while the human was dressed in a fine shirt and jacket that looked like a cross between a british 3 piece and a chinese tang suit, which was in contrast to the wicked axe strapped to his back.

“Ambassador Roughtuff, let me introduce you to Guildmaster Stein, Lord Michael, His Excellency Falith, and Guildmaster Boromir.” He pointed to the greybeard, the finely dressed dwarf, the beastfolk, and the human in turn. “His Excellency is the Ambassador from the Allied Plains Tribes, Master Stein is the guildmaster of the local Brewer’s Guild, and Adventurer Boromir is the guildmaster for the local adventurers.”

I nodded to each, but had to hold back from choking when he gestured at the bushy bearded human. “Boromir??”

“Yes, that would be me. Have you heard of me?” He preened

He had the same deep cascadian accent I associated with Kirk, with a bit of newfie thrown in. “Uh, no. I just knew another Boromir.” Hot damn, he even kind of looked like him. Or like Sean Bean, with the reddish beard and the battle-scarred look.

He looked genuinely pleased at the news. “Really! It’s not too common a name; a dwarf?”

“No, a human.”

“Isn’t that interesting! I thought I was the only one. Perhaps I’ll meet him one day!” He laughed, a booming sound.

I gave a weak smile in return. I seriously doubted that.

“So yer the whippersnapper I’ve been hearing about.” Guildmaster Stein groused. He was drinking from a regular tankard instead of a Whistlemug, I noticed. “I’ve been the one dealing with the fallout of all your nonsense. I’m gonna be droppin’ that whole load on you, you realize.”

I bowed at the waist, cupping my hands. “I greet you on this most auspicious day, Master Brewer.”

He waved me away. “Bah! Save me yer sophistry. I don’t give a damn; I was about to retire anyways. But the youngin’s are enjoyin’ brewin’ more than I’ve seen in centuries. Reminds me of my hitball days…” He sighed, taking a drink from his mug. “And this ass-blaster ain’t half bad.”

There was a toot and the other three edged away from him.

“So, you are the Lord Peyter I’ve heard soh much about.” The beastfolk said, in a pitch perfect norwegian accent. His antlers were larger than any other I’d ever seen around the city, and were festooned with silver and gold and jewelry.

My internal translator assigned accents based on my internal prejudices, so was it giving him a norwegian accent because he looked like a cross between a reindeer and a snow leopard? Or did I somehow associate ‘nomadic wearer of gold’ as ‘viking’?

“Aye.” I gave him a head-waggle, which was their equivalent of a bow. The beastfolk didn’t bow forwards for obvious, pointy, reasons. My studying, paying off! “Lord Peter, at yer service.”

“Then I hope you have more beeyr to serve us! I’ve been enjoying this Liquid Gold!”

“Oh! Is it ours?” I asked, craning my neck to peer through his Whistlemug.

“It is! I had it brought in special!”

“Well, thank you for your patronage!” I gave him a toothy grin, and he returned a decidedly more pointy one back.

“A pleasure to meet you, Your Excellency.” The black clothed dwarf nodded, jumping into the lull in our conversation. “And thank you for looking after my sister.”

“Your… sister?”

“Aye. Duke Barnes is my older sister. My name is Michael Barnes.” He gave me a small bow.

I tried to remember if Duke Barnes had told me about her brother being here. I didn’t recall it, so it probably wasn’t important. Still, I’d need to ask Annie to bring Tourmaline to Cascadia so I could ask her about her uncle.

“Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, don’t you be doin’ any brewin’ in my city without my say so,” Guildmaster Stein grumbled. “And tha’ Guild has asked that you allow their craftsmen to watch while you build yer bloody big brewery.”

I nodded. “Of course, that was half the purpose of me coming.”

“Good. Will you be needing some local craftsman, or did you bring yer own?”

“I’ve got the blueprints, but I was hoping to use locals,” I admitted.

“Good. I heard you were a bit daft from Guildmaster Malt, so I’m glad yer learnin’. I expect we’ll be runnin’ you ragged.”

My smile thinned.

“I would certainly love to see your brewing practices! But I must be away on the morrow.” Ambassador Falith sighed, drinking again from his tankard. “There have beeyn more incursions into the tribes by slavers. They toohk over a dozen families this time. I’ve been called home to provide my magical expertise.”

“Bah. Bastards.” Boromir spat.

“Um… it’s the human kingdoms that are doing it, right?” I asked, glancing out of the corner of my eye at Boromir. “Are… your people okay with all the humans in the city?”

Faith and Boromir looked at each other, then burst out laughing.

“Oh! You are new to this!” Faith guffawed. “The human kingdoms are not like Crack or Awemedinand. They rise and fall, and the humans themselves are as varied as the grasses on the plain. While the humans of the West prey upon our peoples and destroy our culture, we still have allies amongst the giants in the East.”

“Aye! Like Grandia! My home!” Boromir declared, thrusting out his chest with pride. “Home of the free and the brave!”

“But… It is true that our people now lack direction.” Fahlin sighed, scratching at his antlers with a hairy three-fingered hand. “Our last [Shamans] were slain in the war, and the path to Specialize as one has been lost. Without their [Shamans], the tribes refuse to unite. I fear… that our nation may soon perish.”

The mood had grown somber, and I pulled at my beard guiltily. “Oh, um… sorry.”

“Not your fault, Your Excellency. Perhaps we will join ouhr kin in the South.” He smiled sadly. “And give up thee nomadic life to live amongst the city states.”

“Bah! Grandia will have your back!” Boromir declared.

“Can they stand alone against the united strength of the West? I think not,” Haflin’s tone grew heated. “There’s a reason your Archon has refused to mayke a public declaration.”

“He outlawed slavery!”

“And yet he refuses to condemn the Eastern Bloc!”

Otto took me by the elbow and led me away as the two set to bickering. Guildmaster Stein rolled his eyes and buried himself in his tankard while Lord Michael waved goodbye.

“Come along this way, Peter,” Otto grumbled. “We have some delicious snacks from South Erden that you really must try. And those two could be at it for hours.”

“Are things really that bad?” I asked.

Otto nodded, “Aye. Between the recent increases in dungeon breaks, and the human/beastfolk war, the number of beastfolk refugees in Tree has skyrocketed. Things may come to a head soon.”

It looked like it was the same troubles everywhere. Perhaps that was why the Gods had chosen now to send their Chosen. Things seemed ripe for upheaval.

Or maybe we were the upheaval.

Something to chew on.

Either way, it looked like it was going to be a busy, busy, year.

At least it would be easier than whatever fresh Canadian hell Balin was going to find in that dungeon.