The night air chilled to the bone, but there was no cold that could touch Gwevyl's skin. A mighty fine fight it had been, nearly a dozen of the barbarians, and only Gwevyl himself against them. He had just finished a job to deliver a package to the town east of Yriven, the last great refuge for Man or Dwarf north of the Frosted Plains. The employer had a strage air about him, always sneering and rubbing his hands together, but Gwevyl paid no mind. He knew this job had money involved, and so long as he had the coin, he didn't have to go thirsty. Fortune had not been kind to him in recent weeks, and the stocky Dwarf struggled to get himself just a drop of liquor in his belly. But he knew this job would be a piece of cake - what was worse than a short trot along a dirt path that led into a dimly lit grove?
He was told it would only be few hours time before he reached the village, and he had just used the last of his gold for some merriment in liquid form before he left. He paid no mind as he skipped merrily along the exposed soil road, occasionally hearing a hushed whisper. He also paid no mind to the shadows that dashed about in front of him as he reached the dense trees. The only time he paid mind was when there was a great cry from behind him - he figured he should turn to look, this time. Swiftly - mind you, as swift as a fat Dwarf can go - he turned his body, package beneath his left arm, axe in his right hand and upon his shoulder. Suddenly, he was thrust back, knocked into a hollow stump, his items strewn about in front of him. He shook his head slightly, and peered ahead. Three great figures stood directly between him and his package.
Though it was difficult, and he stumbled a bit while doing so, he got to his feet and brandished his mace. The shapes remained ominous and large, nearly twice his height - granted, he was barely four and three-quarter human feet in height himself.
"Right, then - who oughtta be da one who tumbled me over?"
He tried to sound menacing, puffing out his chest a bit, but only making his gut look a bit bigger. One could suppose his fear tactic worked, though, because the figure in the center stepped forward, showing his face. The burly looking man claimed, ay, it was him. Well, I oughtta bet you'd start regrettin' that blunder, Gwevyl said in response. No, the brute didn't. So of course, this verbal altercation resumed for a little bit longer, until the Dwarf got a bit infuriated by the pace of the argument, knowing it was just going to end with him having to bust some heads together, anyway.
The fighting started with the man in the middle getting a mace to the stomach, and the man to the right, that same mace to his leg, then the man on the left tried to swing his blade - too late, the Dwarf had thrown his own weight into the man, knocking him over and crushing a few ribs. Out of the trees, more men came, and the stocky drunkard had by this point grabbed at his axe and placed his foot upon the package.
A few more minutes and the fighting was over - not a scratch on Gwevyl, or the package. He leaned down, slowly, just to make sure he didn't lose his balace, and picked it up. By the time he got to his destination, he had forgotten all about the fight himself, save for the gold he took off of the mens' bodies that now happily jingled along with his skip and whistle. He delivered the package, got plenty of coin in return, and turned toward the nearest street sign he could find.
"Let's see 'ere, tavern!" The word was painted in black, bold letters upon a wooden arrow. Finishing whistling his tune, he pushed open the great oak door with all his might, shaking off the cold as he stepped into the warmth of a great open room.
Oh my, he thought to himself as he sobered up at the sight before him. Clearly, there was some kind of altercation here before - the whole room was littered with broken chairs, bottles, and patrons. Gingerly, he lifted himself onto one of the barstools, and tried to maintain his composure as he saw, magically, the place seeming to fix itself.
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