Beers and Beards: A Cozy Dwarf Tale

The competition banner was over an enormous spiral staircase that led deep underground. Balin and I followed the throng down into the deep as we circled the granite stairs. We were all following several arrows that read ‘Colosseum This Way’.

“Balin, is there really an entire colosseum under the casino? Nobody told me about it when I signed up.”

“Aye, a big one. People bet on fights there.” He answered. “They use it fer other events too, like tha beer competition.”

“Fights like dwarf versus dwarf, or monster killing?”

“Both. There’s magic on it ta keep fighters from takin’ mortal wounds.”

“Well, that’s… neat.” I didn’t know if the thought of bloodsports being popular made me sick to my stomach or excited.

“Besides, nobody even really gets hurt, since the casino has their own [Healer] on staff, and he’s real strong too.” Balin shuffled his feet a bit. “I was also thinkin of competin’ here to make money fer tha brewery.”

“It would probably be safer than the dungeon.” My thoughts drifted back to the mine. “Could the casino [Healer] help Lillyweather?”

Balin shook his head. “Nah, you’d need a [Healer] with a Specialization fer bringin’ back limbs. None a’ those in all of Crack, as far as I know.”

“Aye, but more likely Copperpot will get her a good magic prosthetic.”

“Wait, that actually sounds awesome! Like a hand that could fire magic blasts?” I mimed a certain red armored super hero.

“Aye, and more. A lot of adventurers end up gettin’ em.” He pointed around the crowd, and now that I was looking for it I could see a lot of heavily armored and muscled dwarves with silver, gold, or brass limbs that I'd initially taken for armour. With a closer inspection they looked like cyborg limbs from a movie, with properly moving musculature and everything.

“Do adventurers ever get them on purpose?" I could imagine a metal limb would be a massive advantage if it packed enough magic.

“Sometimes.” Balin nodded. “Usually it’s like Lillyweather, and they lost an arm or leg to a monster. There’s a lot o’ competition between magic engineers, tryin’ ta make them better an stronger.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that engineers that compete in a magic arms race are a bit humerus?”

“No.”

“Do they cost an arm and a leg?”

“Please stop.”

—

The colosseum was in an enormous cavern under the casino. It looked a lot like the colosseum in Rome: circular with a ton of arches. The walls above and around us were covered in beautiful stone and crystal formations. I’d seen pictures of crystal caves on the internet, and it looked a lot like that. The crystals were all a solid white, but lights had been set up to dye some of them gold and silver. When combined with the marble stone of the colosseum it made for a really rich backdrop.

Speaking of rich!

“Balin, the betting booths are over there. Go put our gold on me to win.”

“Are ya sure Pete? I’ve never done any drinkin’ competitions meself, but there’s gotta be some real competition.”

“They briefed me when I signed up, so I know what to expect. There’s a knockout round to start where everyone competes to drink a beer as fast as possible with no spillage. The top hundred do it again, then the top fifty. The top ten move on to the actual competition later tonight. I practiced a bit and it seems I still have my old skills from Earth, and I was no slouch.”

Which was a bit odd, come to think about it. Some of that had to be muscle memory. Maybe my soul was affecting my body? That could explain the high alcohol tolerance too. Another question to ask the Gods when I finally had a moment to talk to a [Prophet].

“I dunno…. I’ve heard a good drinker can put away a jug of beer and not even feel it.” Balin frowned.

“Well Balin, I could drink two jugs and not even feel it. Let me tell you my regular drinking competition routine. Last night, I drank a ton of water. That got me nice and hydrated, and also expanded my stomach. For breakfast today I had a couple glasses of beer, enough to get tipsy, alongside a heavy breakfast of yogurt, eggs, and your horrible fish.”

“What!? Yer’ already drunk!? Aaron’s Arse, Pete!” Balin clutched his moneybag and held it tight, clearly having second thoughts about betting it all on his crazy brother.

“Let me finish!” I waved him down and continued. “I’m fully sober now, but you can think of the morning drink like priming my body’s pump. My liver has been clearin’ alcohol out of my system since this morning, so it’s ready and raring for more.”

“Huh, that makes sense.”

“Additionally, tha heavy breakfast will help absorb the alcohol. Then, I have my secret weapon.” I leaned over and revealed the contents of my pocket. Balin peaked inside.

“Is that… butter?”

“Shhhhh!!” I clamped my hand over his mouth as I noticed a few dwarves peer curiously in our direction. “It’s my secret weapon!”

“What, will ya’ rub it on yer’ opponent’s mug and make him slip and spill?” Balin’s voice was decidedly amused.

“Nah, I’m goin’ ta eat it.”

Balin held his hand over his mouth and turned slightly green. “Urgh, why?”

“It’s a secret technique from a country called Russia. Their spies would eat a big stick of butter before going to parties. They’d be able to drink with everyone while still staying sober. The body still absorbs the alcohol, but much slower, which means you get drunk later instead of right away.”

I now knew that to be an old wives tale, but I’d internalized it in college, and the ritual is almost as important as the technique.

“Wow, Pete.” Balin raised his eyebrows. “You really prepared!”

“I’m not taking any chances. I want that gold, and I want onto the brewing floor. I’m sick of waiting.” I thought about it and sighed. “If you’re really worried, bet on me getting into the top 10. We’ll make a lot less money, but at least we’ll cover our bases. Now go and put the money down, I need to get checked in.”

We went our separate ways and I headed towards a big sign that said “Competitors here”.

—

The dwarf at the entrance led me and three others to the competition grounds. The center of the arena looked exactly like I expected, with rows and rows of seating overlooking a massive sand floor. There were multiple entrances for gladiators and monsters, as well as various interesting gadgets that I couldn’t quite place.

"Ugh. I don't like sand." I grumbled.

There was also a sight I had come to expect from dwarven society: a hundred long picnic style tables. Each table was packed with dwarves of all kinds, and the atmosphere was practically thrumming with anticipation.

“The first heat starts in about twenty minutes. You can take the time to prepare or meet with your fellow competitors.”

“Thank you!” I smiled at the black-armour clad host as he seated the four of us at our respective tables and turned to face my first competitors. They weren’t really anything to look at; most of them were wearing some semblance of an armored suit just like mine, though I was the only one with an expandable waist line.

Amateurs. This competition was in the money bag.

I pulled out my stick of butter and began to munch on it. The dwarves around me edged a bit away, and a couple turned green, but I didn’t care. I gagged a bit as I swallowed; it had the slightly rancid aftertaste of goat product. I had searched for regular bovine butter, but the only varieties I could find cost nearly ten times as much as the goat variety.

After another five minutes or so, the stands began to fill with a few watchers. I could tell a few were bookies from the way they watched and took notes. Most were family members, based on all the banners and hooting and hollering. There were paper signs, leather signs, solstone embedded flags, and a gnomish family with a gizmo that let out puffs of smoke that said “Beatbox”. The aforementioned gnome, whom I immediately wanted to meet, was seated four tables over from me. I could tell when he pulled out a megaphone and called back to his family. He was middle aged, and wearing some kind of spandex suit, complete with a dozen fans and bottles strapped to his back. A cooling apparatus maybe? I noted him down as a serious competitor.

Some of the other dwarves at my table waved at various people in the stands, and I searched for Balin to see if I could spot him. Eventually I managed to pick him out of the crowd, and I waved until he waved back.

I started up some small-talk with the others at my table. They were a bit reluctant at first, but one fellow, who was clearly already drunk, took me up on the offer and soon we were all sharing our favourite beer stories. Every dwarf here wasn’t really in it for the money, they just wanted to say they had taken part in the competition to choose Minnova’s greatest drinkers. Honestly, I could really get behind that. Some of my fondest memories were hanging out with my buddies at big events like Oktoberfest, and what could be bigger than celebrating a decamillenium?

“Thars ma son an’ waif.” A dwarf named Thatch, who had the thickest accent I’d encountered so far, pointed to a pair of dwarves sitting in the stands. They waved back at him and he blew a kiss. “Ma son ain’t ten yars auld. Looks laik ‘is father ‘e do.”

“He’s going to be so proud when you win this competition.” I winked cheekily, and Thatch laughed.

“Nah, I don’ ‘spect ta win. Just fer fun.”

“It’s a lot of silver to spend on fun, but it is once in a lifetime.” Besides, who was I to talk, considering the amount of money I’d spent over the years on expensive drinks at fancy places that sold subpar alcohol.

“Meh,” Thatch shrugged. “Gold is gold.”

That floored me. I’d heard the saying used a lot in dwarven society, but this was the first time I’d heard it used in a fashion that clearly meant ‘Gold is only Gold’. It was an ethos I’d had closer to the end of my life back on earth, when I could afford to impulse buy expensive stuff, or randomly go on vacation. In my constant struggle for money over the last few months, I had forgotten what that was like. Hopefully I’d get it back once I was brewing full time.

“ATTENTION ALL COMPETITORS!” My thoughts were interrupted as a dwarf up on a balcony overlooking the arena caught everyone’s attention. His voice carried far more than it should have, and I suspected some magic or Milestone was involved. As one, every person snapped their eyes up to look at him. He smiled widely, and continued as the crowd grew silent. “As the Lord of our fair city, it is my pleasure to welcome all of you to the City of Minnova’s first champion beer drinking competition!”

The crowd roared its approval and I focused in on the small figure dressed in red. He was wearing some kind of ruby encrusted outfit, almost like a crimson version of Elvis’s signature suit. He had an enormous black beard, and his eyes were actually glowing. There were a couple of steel clad guards standing on the balcony with him. He swept his hand over the crowd and continued.

“This deca-millenium is special! We celebrate not only the continued prosperity of dwarf kind, but the invention of our sacred brew! Even now the other cities of Crack are scouring their populace for the greatest drinkers among them. They think they stand a chance!”

The crowd booed and jeered at that, and he waited for them to quiet down before he continued.

“But we know the truth! From amongst you, we will find the hidden gem that will show the true might of Minnova! Now, prepare to drink, and MAY THE TREE TOWER!”

The crowd roared back “MAY THE TREE TOWER!”, and I joined in the fun. I guessed it to be the town motto, likely based on the motif of the dungeon. It was interesting how much of the local culture was based around the dungeon. I would have thought there would be some distrust or dislike, but it was clear the city was massively proud of their super dangerous death filled dungeon of doom. It was at that moment that I got another quest. I had been putting off my previous ones, and I was going to need to deal with them soon.

Championship Road Part 1/2

You are on the road to becoming the greatest drinker in the city of Minnova. Prove yourself!

Requirement: Enter the top 10

Reward: +0.1 Vitality

Do you accept this quest?

Yes/No

I clicked on yes, and in the next moment, a veritable flood of servers entered the arena, each carrying a platter laden with drinks. One came alongside our table and handed a tankard to each of us. He then walked to the head of the table and raised his arm.

“In a moment, I will drop my hand. Each of you are to drink your beer as fast as possible. Any spillage will disqualify you. The top drinker at the table will move to the next round.”

We all nodded and took hold of our drinks, placing them at our lips. The host looked at his watch, and after a few seconds, dropped his hand.

The technique for fast drinking varies from person to person, but its essence can be boiled down to: don’t breathe, and don’t swallow. The trick is to expel every bit of air in your lungs and then open your mouth as wide as possible. This opens up a muscle in your throat called the epiglottis, and lets you pour the beer directly down your esophagus and into your stomach. If you can avoid gagging, it allows you to drink incredibly fast. The world record is only one and a half seconds to drink an entire liter of beer. The record for a pint is half a second.

I wasn’t that good. It took me almost three quarters of a second to chug the pint.

I slammed my mug down on the table and looked around. Everyone else had barely taken their first sip. A couple of them even stopped and stared at me with wide eyes, though Thatch continued chugging merrily away.

I glanced at the host, who stammered. “The winner of this table is Peter Roughtuff!”

Hail to the king, baby!