Chapter 1: Liquid Courage and a Gnomish Gambit
The air in the Tipsy Tinker Tavern was a permanent stew of woodsmoke, roasting venison, and spilled ale. Pipkin Fizzlewick breathed it in like perfume, her booted feet dangling a good foot off the floor from her stool. The polished oak bar was sticky under her elbows.
She watched the giant from across the room. He was a mountain of fur and quiet patience, sipping what looked like a thimble of tea in his massive hand. A Tauren. In Valdrakken. You didn’t see many of them here, not this deep in the city’s stone heart.
“Another,” Pipkin said, sliding her empty tankard toward the barkeep. It made a heavy thunk.
The barkeep, a dwarf with a beard like a frayed rope, raised a bushy eyebrow. “That’s your third, Fizzlewick. You’re three feet tall.”
“And you’re four feet of pessimism. The brew, please.”
As the fresh tankard was set before her, Pipkin’s small fingers dipped into a pouch on her toolbelt. They brushed against cool, polished metal—a small, cylindrical device with a faint, humming warmth. Her latest project. The G.E.E., or Gnomish Endurance Enhancer. In theory, it used a minor arcanokinetic field to accelerate metabolic processing of ethanol. In practice, it meant she could drink a dwarven miner under the table.
A plan, ridiculous and delightful, clicked into place in her mind. She hopped down, the impact jolting up her spine, and weaved through the forest of legs and chair legs toward the Tauren’s table.
He looked up as her shadow fell across his drink. Which was funny, as she barely cast one. His eyes were the colour of dark soil, and kind, set in a weathered face mapped with lines that spoke of sun and wind. His horns, curving up toward the smoke-stained ceiling beams, were etched with spirals.
“Can I help you?” he rumbled. His voice was so deep she felt it in her teeth.
“Pipkin Fizzlewick,” she said, not offering a hand. He’d probably shake her whole arm off. “Artificer. I couldn’t help but notice you look… bored.”
A faint snort of air came from his broad nostrils. “I am content. Observation has its own rewards. I am Ronan Stormhoof.”
“Content is a polite word for it, Ronan Stormhoof.” She jerked a thumb back toward the bar. “I propose a change of pace. A contest.”
Now both eyebrows lifted, disappearing into the shaggy fur of his brow. “A contest.”
“Drinking.” Pipkin grinned, her own eyes bright behind the lenses of her clockwork goggles, which she’d pushed up into her messy pink hair. “You look like you could hold your liquor. I know I can. Let’s see who’s standing at the end of the pitcher.”
A rumble started in his chest, resolving into a soft, genuine chuckle. It vibrated the table. “Little one, I respect the courage. But the outcome is hardly in question.”
“That’s the spirit!” she said, already turning and waving at the barkeep. “Two pitchers of the Ironforge IPA! The strong stuff!”
The tavern’s noise, a constant drone of laughter and argument, dipped as patrons took notice. A gnome, barely taller than the table itself, challenging a Tauren to a drink-off. It was better than the nightly brawl. A loose semi-circle formed.
Ronan watched her, his expression unreadable. The pitchers arrived, huge earthenware things that Pipkin needed two hands to lift. She thumped one in front of him, sloshing suds over the side. She kept her back to the crowd, her body shielding her actions as her hand slipped into her pocket. A click, a barely perceptible whirr. The G.E.E. was active, a pleasant hum against her thigh.
“No rules,” she announced, hefting her own pitcher. “No chants. Just drink.”
Ronan nodded slowly. He picked up his pitcher as if it were a delicate flower. “To unexpected challenges,” he said.
“To not puking!” Pipkin countered, and tipped the pitcher back.
The ale was bitter, cold, and voluminous. It felt like trying to drink a waterfall. She heard the crowd whoop, a distant sound over the roar in her ears. Her throat worked, her jaw ached. Across from her, Ronan drank with a slow, steady, terrifying efficiency. No gulping. Just a continuous, relentless pour.
Pipkin’s pitcher hit the table first, empty. She gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, foam clinging to her pink braids. A cheer went up. Ronan set his down a second later, equally empty. Not a drop spilled on his fur.
“Again?” Pipkin wheezed, her voice already raspy.
The Tauren studied her. A flicker of something like concern in those deep eyes. “You are determined.”
“That’s one word for it.”
The second pitcher was a blur of rising noise and descending liquid. The G.E.E. hummed, a little beacon of sobriety in a sea of impending fog. Pipkin felt the alcohol, sure, a warm buzz at the edges of her perception, but it was held at bay, processed, neutralized. She drank mechanically, her world narrowing to the rim of the pitcher and Ronan’s impassive face.
He finished his second. She finished hers, slamming it down with a defiant crack. The tavern roared. Her stomach sloshed, a precarious ocean.
Ronan leaned forward, his huge frame blocking out the torchlight. His voice, when he spoke, was for her alone. “You are using a device.”
Pipkin’s grin froze. She hiccupped. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The hum. The lack of flush in your skin. It is clever.” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded… impressed. “But the body has limits even magic cannot erase. You will hit yours before I hit mine.”
“Is that a no to the third pitcher?” she challenged, though a cold trickle of doubt cut through the artificial clarity. He knew.
“It is a yes,” he said, and signaled for two more.
The third pitcher was a war of attrition. The crowd’s cheers became a tinny echo. Pipkin’s hands were slick on the cool clay. The G.E.E. was warm now, almost hot. A warning. Ronan drank with the same steady rhythm, but she saw a sheen of sweat on his broad forehead now, a slight glazing of his eyes. He was feeling it. Naturally. The sheer volume was enough to drown a kodo.
She drank. The ale tasted like iron and regret. Halfway through, a sharp, hot pain lanced through her temple. A spike of pure, unprocessed drunkenness. The G.E.E. sputtered, its field faltering. Not now, she thought, desperately.
She pushed through, draining the pitcher through sheer will, ale running down her chin and soaking her tunic. She finished, vision swimming, and saw Ronan was still drinking. He was going to win. The natural, colossal bastard was going to outlast her cheat.
He lowered his pitcher. It was empty. He took a long, slow breath, his great chest expanding. Then he did something astonishing.
He stood up.
And immediately listed to the side, catching himself on the table with a hand that could have crushed it. The entire tavern held its breath. He swayed, like a great tree in a strong wind. His eyes, fixed on a point on the far wall, lost their focus.
Then, with a sigh that sounded like a rockslide, Ronan Stormhoof’s knees buckled. He folded, gracefully and quietly, collapsing into a vast, furry heap on the sawdust-strewn floor. A thunderous snore erupted from him instantly.
The silence was absolute for three full seconds.
Then the place exploded. Coins changed hands. Dwarves pounded the tables. Pipkin, still perched on her stool, stared at the mountainous form of her unconscious opponent. She’d done it. She’d actually won.
The victory tasted like bile. She swallowed hard, the world tilting on its axis as her failed device finally gave up completely. The full force of three pitchers of Ironforge IPA hit her like a runaway mine cart.
She slid off the stool, legs wobbling. The crowd parted for her, clapping her on the back—well, on the head—as she stumbled toward the door. She needed air. Now.
In the cool, quiet alley behind the Tipsy Tinker, she braced herself against the rough stone wall and took deep, shuddering breaths. The stars above Valdrakken were sharp pinpricks. After a few minutes, the worst of the spin subsided. She patted her pocket. The G.E.E. was silent, dead. Probably fried its core. She’d need a new arcane capacitor. A rare one. Expensive.
A groan from the alley mouth made her jump. Ronan was sitting up, rubbing his head with a hand the size of a dinner plate. He looked around, disoriented, then his soil-brown eyes found her.
“You,” he said, the word thick.
“Me,” she agreed, wary.
He got to his feet, a process that involved several stages of leverage. He took a step toward her, looming. Pipkin tensed, ready to run, though her legs felt like overcooked noodles.
He stopped. Sniffed the air. His gaze zeroed in on the bulge in her tool pouch where the dead G.E.E. rested.
“It broke,” he stated.
“Maybe.”
“You won unfairly. But you still won.” He seemed to be turning this over in his mind, a complex philosophical puzzle. “I require something.”
“I’m not buying you breakfast.”
“An herb. Silverleaf Dreamthorn. It grows only in high, lonely places. It is why I came to Valdrakken. The climb to where it grows is… technical. I am strong. I am not agile.” He looked down at his hooves, then back at her. “You are clever. You make devices for problems. This is a problem.”
Pipkin blinked. The drunken haze was clearing, leaving behind a thumping headache and this bizarre proposition. “You want me to help you get a flower because I cheated at drinking?”
“Yes,” Ronan said, simple as that. “And because without my funds, which I lost in a foolish wager on myself, I cannot buy the climbing gear I need.” A note of shame entered his voice. “The wager was with a goblin. He was not understanding when I awoke.”
Pipkin barked a laugh, then clutched her head. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re broke, I’m broke. My capacitor’s fried. We’re a pair.”
“Then we are aligned,” Ronan said, taking another step closer. He didn’t smell of ale, but of sage and warm earth. “Help me retrieve the Dreamthorn. I will sell it. We split the proceeds. You get your capacitor. I get… my dignity back.”
It was a terrible plan. It involved heights, which she hated, and wilderness, which was full of bugs and a distinct lack of coffee. But it also involved a challenge, a puzzle, and a chance to see a giant Tauren try to navigate a cliff face.
She stuck out her hand. “Fine. Partners. But no more drinking contests.”
Ronan’s huge hand enveloped hers, calloused and careful. “Agreed.”
As they shook, Pipkin’s mind, ever ticking, was already cataloguing the tools she’d need. And wondering, with a sinking feeling, exactly where one found a rare arcane capacitor in this city.
Then she remembered. The goblin. The one who now held Ronan’s purse.
He’d have one. For a price. Probably a steep, unpleasant, decidedly goblin price.
She looked up at Ronan’s earnest, hungover face. “We’re going to need a better plan.”
The walk to the Gilded Gear was a slow, wobbly affair. Valdrakken’s tiered cityscape, usually a marvel of soaring arches and dragon motifs, felt oppressive and tiltable. Pipkin focused on placing one foot precisely in front of the other. Ronan’s shadow, cast by the glowing street-lamps, engulfed her completely with each step.
“His name is Grix,” Ronan rumbled, his voice still thick. “He has a stall in the artisanal quarter. Sells… things.”
“Things he probably stole,” Pipkin muttered, sidestepping a puddle that would have come up to her knee. “How much did you lose to him?”
A long, ashamed silence. “Enough to purchase a full set of scaled climbing gear from the expeditioners’ lodge. And a new saddle.”
Pipkin whistled, then regretted it as her head throbbed. “You bet your saddle? What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I could out-drink a gnome.” The honesty was disarming.
The Gilded Gear was a ramshackle three-story inn that leaned against a sturdy stone wall as if for support. It catered to those with light purses and few questions. The air in the common room was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of boiled cabbage. A grizzled human behind the counter barely looked up from his ledger.
“A room,” Pipkin said, hauling herself onto the counter stool.
“Two silver. Per person.”
“One room. One bed. One silver,” Pipkin countered, her mind clicking into negotiation mode. “My large friend here doesn’t fit in your standard beds anyway, so you’re not losing premium space. We’re quiet. We leave at dawn.”
The innkeeper’s eyes flicked between her and the Tauren currently ducking under the doorframe. “One silver, five copper. And he doesn’t get the all-you-can-eat breakfast. Breaks the budget.”
“Deal.”
The room was at the top of a narrow, creaking staircase that Ronan ascended with profound caution. The space was simple: a worn rug, a small window, a washbasin, and a bed. A single bed. It was wide enough for two humans, or three gnomes.
For a gnome and a Tauren, it was a geometric puzzle.
Ronan stared at it, his ears twitching. “This was an error.”
“No, it was economics,” Pipkin said, dropping her tool satchel with a thud. “Look, the floor’s clean-ish. You take the bed, I’ll curl up on the rug. Sorted.”
“You will take the bed,” Ronan said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He was already pulling the thin mattress off the wooden frame with one hand. He laid it on the floor, then placed the now-bare frame sideways against the wall. He then positioned the mattress back on top of the slats, creating a sleeping surface that was now essentially the entire width of the room. “There.”
It was a surprisingly elegant solution. The bedframe acted as a raised border, keeping the mattress from spreading. They would share the expanse of flattened straw and linen, with more than enough space to avoid contact.
“Not bad, Stormhoof. For a herbalist.”
“Herbalists understand structure. Roots. Support.” He settled on the far edge of the mattress with a groan that made the floorboards complain. He moved with a careful, deliberate grace, keeping his broad back to her as he removed his leather pauldrons and satchel.
Pipkin turned her own back, fiddling with her boots. The reality of the situation settled in. She was in a dingy room, about to share a bed with a half-stranger from a race known for trampling enemies into the dust. She checked the G.E.E. in her pocket. Dark. Dead. A useless lump of metal.
She blew out the lone candle.
The darkness was immediate and total, save for a sliver of moonlight through the small window. The room filled with the sounds of their breathing, the distant clatter from the common room below, and the rustle of fabric as they each tried to find a comfortable position.
“You look older than you are,” Ronan’s voice came softly through the dark.
Pipkin stiffened. “What?”
“Your eyes. Around them. Deep lines. Not from laughter. From squinting. From leaning over blueprints with bad light. From concentration.” He paused. “My people see age not just in years, but in the marks the world leaves on a spirit. Yours are heavy for one so young.”
The observation was so blunt, so unexpectedly perceptive, that it stole her breath. She was used to comments on her height, her hair, her gadgets. Never that. She felt seen, and it was unsettling.
“Artificing is stressful,” she deflected, her voice quieter than she intended. “Things blow up. Deadlines loom. It’s not all fun and clockwork.”
“Hmm.”
Silence again, but a different kind. Less awkward, more thoughtful.
“Tomorrow,” Pipkin said, staring at the ceiling she couldn’t see. “We find Grix. We get your money back, or we get that capacitor. Or both.”
“How?”
“We improvise.” A faint, grim smile touched her lips. “I’m good at improvising. And you’re very large. Between the two of us, we should be able to convince a goblin that a mutually beneficial agreement is in his immediate future.”
Ronan’s deep chuckle was a vibration through the mattress. “This is the better plan?”
“It’s the only plan we’ve got.”
She heard him shift, the straw crunching. “Then we should sleep.”
Pipkin closed her eyes. The ale’s aftermath still hummed in her veins, but a new, sharper current of anticipation thrummed beneath it. She was adrift, but she wasn’t alone. Next to her, the massive, warm presence of Ronan Stormhoof breathed steadily in the dark, a strange anchor in a suddenly unpredictable world. The bed was vast and shared, and for the first time in a long time, the silence around her didn’t feel empty.