Beers and Beards Book 3: The Big Brewhaha

Dwarf’s Log, Deathdate 003

These are the voyages of the starsoul Peter Phillips. I appear to have died and been transported from my loving family and home to an underground prison hellscape of bad BO and worse beer. I am trapped in the body of a dwarf named Pete Samson. Samson arrived in the city of Minnova about three months ago, where he was picked up by the local guards after he was caught begging for beer in the streets. I took over Pete’s body after my untimely demise on Earth. I am working in the City of Minnova Reform Mine, where I will remain until such a time as I have paid off Pete`s indenture. I appear to be in deep shit.

I scooped some shit up and plunked it into the cart beside me, then avoided brushing the sweat out of my eyes. The unigoat in the stall beside me chuffed and added to my work. Yep, a real deep canyon of shit. After the sulphur and spit debacle I got put on punishment duty by Grim. Goods from the mine were carted down to the city by unigoats, and nobody had cleaned the manure pit in ages because… dwarves. Seriously, some of this stuff was crusting over.

I admit to being a bit disillusioned here. I don’t know what I was expecting after I died. I wasn’t religious, so heaven was out. I grew up Catholic, but that wore off around the fourth time I got blackout drunk in college. Hell? Purgatory? I certainly wasn’t expecting a small mining camp filled with boisterous and outgoing, if slightly surly, hairy alcoholics.

And my God, the alcohol! It was sour with a bitter aftertaste, had almost no alcohol content, and left my mouth feeling filmy. It’s SO BAD, and they’re drinking it ALL THE TIME! They even call it the Sacred Brew.

Wake up? Take a drink.

Break? Take a drink.

Lunch? Take a drink.

Go mining? Take a drink.

Almost die? You guessed it! Take a drink!

They all love the stuff and seem to have zero actual tolerance for alcohol. I’d put their beers at around 1 percent actual alcohol content, and I haven’t seen anything that appears to be a harder drink. As far as I can tell, some dwarf invented beer ages ago, and they all fell so in love with the stuff that they never bothered improving it. It’s a cultural institution, and the idea that it could be better is completely foreign to them.

“How ya’ doin, Pete?” A voice interrupted my reverie from the other side of the stables.

“Hi, Balin. I’m doing a bit better,” I replied, taking the opportunity to get out of the pit.

“‘Ave yer memories come back?” Balin asked, as he took a step back. His handlebar moustache quivered at the stench wafting from the manure pit. We both looked to the side as the sound of rumbling drew our attention.

Another pair of dwarves, Annie and Wreck, pushed a massive cart filled with ore past us. A total of twenty dwarves lived in the camp: sixteen miners, the warden Grim, Doc Opal, Speaker John, and Whisperer Gemma. Doc Opal was the one who saved me from sulphur poisoning, and she’s also the one helping take care of my ‘amnesia,’ or as she calls it, “damage to the spirit.” I was pretty sure “spirit” referred to my mind and soul, so wasn’t that a comforting thought?

“Not yet,” I replied to Balin as I washed my hands in a trough.

“Nothin’ in yer Status Sheet?” Balin kept his distance as I washed up, his eyes tracking Annie. Last night he confided to me in a drunken stupor that Annie had “the finest beard this side of Crack,” whatever that means. It is a really nice beard though, long and silky with finely woven tresses and a Dali moustache. She was one of the few blonde dwarves as well; the rest of the miners were mostly brunettes with only Doc Opal and Speaker John having white hair.

Yes, female dwarves did have beards and moustaches. Contrary to certain pop-culture, it was still possible to tell them apart. Their beard hair was usually softer and downier than the males, and they had softer, more feminine facial features. Some discrete questioning revealed they also had breasts, but traditional dwarven clothing favoured chest-flattening armour.

I replied as I opened my … Status Sheet … by intoning ‘status’ in my head. A slightly translucent blue box appeared in my vision with a cheerful *Bing!*

Status: Provided by the Firmament

Name: Peter Phillips Samson

Age: 48

Conditions: None

Race: Dwarf

Blessings: None

Title: None

Milestones: [Otherworlder]

Strength: 12

Vitality: 12

Agility: 10

Dexterity: 11

Wisdom: 12

Intelligence: 10

Perception: 13

Charisma: 8

I focused on [Otherworlder] and another little blue box popped up.

[Otherworlder] – Your spirit has found a new spark! Your mental statistics have been replaced with their previous values, and you are more likely to gain Blessings and Milestones!

If [Otherworlder] meant what I thought it did, my current intelligence, wisdom, perception, and charisma were based off their values from Earth. As a college grad, I felt my intelligence should have been higher, but I was essentially a child when it came to local knowledge. At least my ‘amnesia’ made it easy to ask questions that everybody should already know.

“Nope, no Conditions. Run it by me, Balin. What do these numbers actually mean? Practically speaking?”

“Midna’s Mullet, Pete, how much did ya ferget? A youngster’s about an eight in each stat, and an adult has around ten. Every additional point is just a bit stronger than the last.” Balin was always willing to give a hand and was only a slightly sappy drunk. “Strength is how much you can lift and how hard ya can hit. Vitality is how well ya can hold yer beer! Agility is fer runnin’ and movin’, while dexterity is about fine coordination. Wisdom is tricky, since you can always ignore tha voice that says ‘don’t stick yer head in a freschie!’ Ha! Intelligence is book smarts, perception is spottin’ things, and charisma keeps ya from spittin’ beer all over yer mates!”

“Hardy, har. So, if I got my strength up to one hundred, could I smash solid stone apart with my bare fist?” That sounded pretty cool!

“Nah, yer limit’s ‘bout a thirty-two in any stat. You’d need Abilities or Conditions ta go higher, and even then, it won’t be by much. Every four stat points is around one and a half times as strong, so a person with sixteen strength would be half again stronger than someone with twelve.”

That put me at mostly average, with good wisdom and perception, and shit charisma. I wouldn’t have called myself uncharismatic back on Earth, so maybe it had to do with how I compared to everyone else in this new world? I admit that I’ve made a ton of social faux pas since I got here. Or maybe it’s just the dad jokes.

Balin and I continued to chat about my status as we walked towards the mess hall. He was still wearing the same leather armour that all the miners wore, including me. It was comfy and helped protect against the sharp edges of stone in the mining tunnels. Oh, and it helped against monster attacks, because of course those were a thing.

A couple more dwarves walked past in the other direction, likely headed to the mining tunnels. They nodded to us as they passed, the manacles on their arms twinkling in the light. I looked down at my own metal shackles. While we were technically not ‘prisoners,’ it was functionally the same. Outside of a few rare vacation days, we were not allowed to leave the mine until we completed our indenture. The manacles were magical and would notify Grim if we tried to leave the mine. I felt like a prisoner, but the dwarven legal codes were very clear that I was not. It was just another thing about this place that was alien to my sensibilities. In my eyes we were all members of the chain-gang; I should really start teaching everyone the blues.

Speaking of alien, I looked up to the ‘night sky’ above us. While we were technically underground, a ceiling was actually a couple hundred metres above us. A luminescent moss on the roof gave the impression of an ethereal starry night that lasted the whole day. Rivers of blue-white light flowed every which way through the cavern like a multitude of milky ways. The effect was pretty amazing, and I often spent the evening looking at the ‘stars’ after everyone else had passed out from drinking.

The space was massive, and several other mining outposts could be spotted in the distance – lights in the dark. Each mining outpost was a small collection of buildings with the actual mining tunnels snaking beneath them. A few mountains dotted the landscape, monoliths that loomed out of the dim twilight. Our camp was actually on top of one of them, and the city of Minnova could be seen far below us to the south, in the centre of the cavern. An enormous purple crystal hanging above the city filled the entire cavern with a soft glow. It was too far to make out any details, but Minnova seemed fairly mediaeval, with tall walls and a large palace at its centre.

We reached the mess hall in short order, which was a large, nondescript stone building with lights of some kind festooned around it. They didn’t have electricity around here, so the lights were a mystery for another time.

Balin took a deep sniff as we went through the door. “Ach, smells great!”

The interior of the mess hall was laid out almost exactly like a school cafeteria back home, with a door to the kitchen, a food service counter, and a lot of wooden picnic-style tables with benches. A stage was set up against one side for Grim to make announcements, and one table at the back was reserved for the permanent staff, like Doc Opal or Speaker John.

It was lunch time, which meant sandwiches with a slice of lettuce, goat cheese, and chicken breast. It was pretty tasty, and I was continually surprised by the quality of our ‘cafeteria fare.’

Balin grabbed a plate from the short-bearded dwarf handing out food. “Thankee, Bran. Looks delicious as always.”

Bran gave an acknowledging nod, his black bristle moustache quivering. “I added my special sauce today. It’s a treat for the Blessin’ party. Annie got Blessed!”

“Ach, good for her!” Balin’s eyes sparkled. “She deserves it!”

We sat down next to a trio of dwarves who ignored us to continue their argument about the superiority of axes over swords. The sandwich was a perfect ratio of filling to bread and crunched between my teeth. I closed my eyes and appreciated the flavour of roasted chicken mixed with slightly melted cheese. Bran’s special sauce was a tangy white cream sauce that reminded me of a standard bechamel sauce. A hard day of work shovelling poop would make anything taste good, but Bran really spoiled us.

Most dwarves were messy eaters, and I snickered as I glanced down the line of tables. Twenty dwarves were joyfully devouring their sandwiches, each with a near identical dribble of white sauce flowing down their beard. Balin made joyful munching sounds beside me and gave an *mmm* of happiness.

“Bran’s secret sauce is sooo good! I wonder how he makes it!”

“It’s a pretty standard white sauce. I could probably figure it out.”

Balin gave me a wide-eyed look. “How would ya know that!?”

I turned the topic of our conversation towards the news instead. “Annie got Blessed, eh? You said that Grim and Opal are Blessed too?”

“Aye, Grim’s Blessed by Lunara for all his ‘ard work as Mine Manager, and Doc Opal’s twice Blessed by Archis and Lunara. That makes ‘er a Titled [Doctor]!”

Apparently, Gods were real here, and they each embodied a pair of the fundamentals of reality and civilization, or the Firmament. I couldn’t keep them all straight yet, but I did know Barck was the God of Spark and Innovation and Tiara was the Goddess of Matter and Possessions. Barck got called on a lot because his Blessing was [Good Luck], and Tiara because she was the Goddess of Gems and everyone wanted to strike it rich.

I wondered what Blessing Annie got. It looked like we were about to find out, as Grim walked up onto the stage.

“Cheers, you rascals!” Grim shouted. “We managed to exceed our quota today! Great work Annie and Wreck, for bringing in an entire extra cart of ore!” Grim pointed to Annie and another dwarf with a long stringy reddish-brown beard that reached her feet. “And a special congratulations to Annie for receivin’ a Blessing from Barck!” The crowd erupted into cheers and splashes as dwarves clinked glasses. Annie stood up to the applause, her ruddy cheeks blushing as she took the iron helmet off her head.

“Thank you everyone!” She shouted in a surprisingly sweet alto as the applause died down. “I noticed that the minecart wheels kept seizing up from dust when we spent a lot of time in the tunnels, so I designed a new grease using sap from dungeon vines. It worked, and Barck gave me his Blessing!” There was a fresh round of cheering and clinking of glasses. I tapped on Balin’s shoulder as people went up to congratulate Annie. He was staring wistfully at her and turned a distracted eye back towards me.

“Dungeon?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s tha main reason that Minnova is built ‘ere. There’s a plant dungeon down below the city. It’s the main source of our veggies. Killer Cabbages an’ Peashooters, an’ others. There’s an ‘ole lotta gold to be made down there.”

“Killer, what-now?” I asked, looking at the leafy greens on my sandwich. Had I been eating monstrous vegetables?

“Killer cabbages, they’re full o’ vitamins and good fer the body! Tasty too!” Balin grinned as he took a big bite from his sandwich before chugging down some of his beer. I started on my beer as well. I’d almost prefer water to this swill, but apparently nobody down here drank water. It was all beer and sometimes goat milk, though that’s apparently for kids. Of both kinds.

They’ve only got two kinds of beer. The ale – True Brew, and a lager – Light Brew. There’re no stouts, no IPAs, no sours, nothing that could be considered a craft beer at all. My tankard was currently full of slightly flat Light Brew. It was completely the wrong glass for this kind of beer. A lager should at the very least be served in a shaker – or pint – glass, which is wide at the mouth and narrow at the base. This tankard was simply the giant deuce on top of the shit sandwich that was this beer. At least the actual sandwich was good.

I took another bite and tried not to reminisce about Caroline’s signature BLT. Would I ever taste it again? Could I go home, or was this my new life now? A bearded life filled with awful ale…

You know what, no. This entire situation was a crime against beer, and as a lifelong brewer I was going to take it personally. I’ve been wondering why I reincarnated here, and I think I finally figured it out. It was my job, nay, my duty as a proud Canadian Craft Brewer to SAVE BEER! I would see a Hefeweizen behind every dwarven bar within the next decade. A Saison in the hand of every dwarven child, or my name wasn’t Peter Phillips – er, Samson! If they didn’t like it, fine – lots of people don’t like beer – but at least dwarven craft beer would no longer be stuck in boozy limbo.

First though, I had to get out of this stupid mine. I mulled it over for a while, until I was broken out of my reverie by Doc Opal’s voice at my side. I looked up and gave her a wide smile. I would come back to this later; I had a whole new life to work on it after all. At least, unless I stumbled on a way to go back to my old one.

—

Somewhere else.

On the side of a cliff stood a white stone gazebo. Mist fell from a great waterfall that stretched beneath it, vanishing into the clouds below. A black mountain rose up behind it, seeming to touch the sky. A circular marble table covered by a complex game-board sat in the centre of the gazebo. The edges of the board seemed to stretch into the distance while still somehow filling a defined space. Eight ornate figurines sat upon the board – a dragon, an elf, two humans, two dwarves, a gnome, and a beastfolk. One of them, a white porcelain dwarf holding a tankard, tentatively slid across the board.