by Bill Tiepelman
Froth and Fellowship
The Stranger with No Beard The ale flowed like a mountain spring, golden and rich, with froth thick enough to hide a dagger in. The Stone Tankard tavern was alive with the raucous laughter of dwarves, their beards tangled with the remnants of past feasts and their hands gripping mugs so large they might have been mistaken for war hammers. At the heart of the room sat three seasoned drinkers: Orin Ironjaw, whose beard had seen more battles than most men saw winters; Hargan “Two-Tankard” Frostborn, a title earned through both capacity and catastrophe; and Durnek the Silent, whose words were as rare as an elf in a mineshaft. They had gathered, as they did every fortnight, to drink, boast, and laugh at each other’s misfortunes. But this night was different. The heavy oaken doors swung open with an eerie creak. A hush fell over the tavern. Even the ever-burning lanterns seemed to flicker. The newcomer stepped forward—tall for a dwarf, but still unmistakably one of their kin. And then the true horror struck them all: he had no beard. Not a braid, not a whisker, not even a stubborn patch of stubble struggling to prove its worth. His face was smooth as polished mithril, bare as an elf’s cheek, an abomination in every dwarven eye that turned toward him. The silence deepened. A single peanut, thrown in mid-drink by a drunkard, struck the floor with an ominous clink. Orin leaned in to his comrades. “By the stone, I think I’ve lost my appetite.” “Aye,” said Hargan, gripping his tankard like a weapon. “A beardless dwarf? Either he’s a ghost, or we’re all deep in our cups.” “Hmph,” muttered Durnek, who had seen many things in his long life, but never this. The stranger approached the bar, his boots striking the stone floor with an unnatural lightness. He placed a coin—an old one, from a forgotten mint—on the counter and spoke. “A tankard of your finest,” he said, his voice smooth and unwavering. The barkeep, Gorrim Stonebrew, hesitated. His eyes narrowed. “And what name should I put to this ale?” The stranger smiled. “Call me Varn.” A collective shudder rippled through the room. The name meant nothing—and that was the problem. Every dwarf had a clan, a lineage, a tale to tell with their very presence. But this one? He was as blank as his face. Orin slammed his mug on the table. “Right. I’m not having this. Beardless or no, no dwarf drinks alone in my hall.” Hargan nodded, though his grip on his tankard didn’t loosen. “Aye, and no dwarf leaves without a tale to tell.” Durnek merely took a long, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving Varn. The stranger turned to them, his gaze meeting Orin’s with an intensity that sent a prickle down his spine. “Then let me buy the next round,” Varn said, his smile widening. “And I’ll tell you a tale you won’t forget.” The drinks were poured, the fire crackled, and the night pressed in close. And so the story began. The Tale of Varn the Beardless The first sip was taken in silence. Orin, Hargan, and Durnek each lifted their tankards, watching Varn closely as he did the same. The beardless dwarf drank like any other—deep, slow, appreciative. He did not flinch. He did not sip hesitantly, like an outsider unaccustomed to dwarven brews. And most importantly, he did not cough, gag, or collapse. That, at least, earned him a measure of respect. "Aye," Orin muttered, lowering his mug. "You drink like a dwarf. But you don’t look like one." Hargan leaned in. "You owe us a tale, beardless one. And it better be worth the ale." Varn wiped the foam from his lip—his bare lip, which still made the other dwarves uneasy—and let out a slow breath. "Very well," he said. "Let me tell you a story of treachery, of forgotten halls, and of a curse that only I have lived to escape." The Mountain of No Return "There was once a kingdom so rich in gold, so heavy with treasures, that even its rats gnawed on silver scraps. A dwarven hold older than memory, carved into the deepest heart of the mountains. Its halls were so grand that even kings of men would have knelt to see them. "This was Khuld Baraz, the Hollow Crown." At the name, Orin’s grip tightened around his mug. Hargan stopped mid-drink. Even Durnek’s eyes—hard as granite—narrowed slightly. Khuld Baraz was a legend. A myth. A ghost tale told to frighten young dwarves. No one in living memory had seen it, nor knew if it ever truly existed. "Aye," Varn continued, as if hearing their thoughts. "You’ve all heard the stories. The lost kingdom, the vanished clans, the gold that sings to itself in the dark. But what none of you know is this: it was not lost to war, nor dragon, nor cave-in. It was stolen. By its own people." He leaned in, his voice lowering. "I know this, because I was there when the gates shut for the last time." The tavern was silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of spilled ale from Hargan’s forgotten mug. "A curse was set upon our kind," Varn said. "Not by sorcery, nor by gods, but by greed itself. The deeper we dug, the richer we became. The richer we became, the more we hoarded. And the more we hoarded, the less we could bear to part with it. Gold is a weight upon the soul, heavier than stone. One by one, the dwarves of Khuld Baraz ceased to leave. The gates rusted shut. The forges went cold. No trade, no messengers, no word from the outside. "And then came the sickness." Hargan scoffed. "Bah! What sickness? Dwarves don’t get sick." Varn met his gaze. "This one did." "It started slow. A reluctance to part with even a single coin. Then a hatred of the very idea of trade. We watched our brothers waste away, clutching their gold with gnarled hands, starving before they’d dare buy a scrap of bread. A madness that whispered in our ears, telling us the gold must never leave, that it was ours alone, and that death was preferable to losing even a single coin." "By the time I realized the truth, it was too late. I tried to flee, but the gates were sealed. None could leave. None wanted to leave. And so I did the unthinkable—I begged the mountain for mercy." The Price of Freedom "I do not know if it was the gods or the stone itself that answered me. But when I awoke the next day, I was different. The sickness was gone. The whisper of gold had left my mind." Varn let out a slow breath. "And so had my beard." The three dwarves at the table recoiled. "A curse of shame," Orin whispered. "Aye," Varn said. "The mountain took my beard in exchange for my mind. I am the only one who left Khuld Baraz, but I left as no dwarf at all." The silence stretched long and uneasy. "So," Hargan said, his voice hoarse. "That’s your tale." Varn nodded. Orin exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his beard. "And what now? You wander from hall to hall, drinking with proper folk, carrying a name with no clan?" Varn smirked. "Aye. And warning dwarves like you not to let gold weigh too heavy on your hearts." For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Durnek, who had sat in silence the entire time, reached into his pocket and tossed a single coin onto the table. "Buy another round," he said, his voice like grinding stone. "If you're going to tell such a fine tale, you’ll not drink on your own coin." Orin and Hargan grinned. "Aye," Orin said. "You may not have a beard, but by the stone, you drink like a dwarf. That counts for something." Hargan lifted his tankard high. "To Varn, the Beardless Bastard!" Varn laughed, and for the first time in years, he felt at home. And the ale flowed well into the night. Looking to own a piece of this tale? The stunning image that inspired "Froth and Fellowship" is available for prints, downloads, and licensing in our Image Archive. Visit our archive to bring this legendary scene to life in your own space.
