Chapter Two: Ruffgar

We're introduced to another protagonist, Ruffgar, a barkeep at the local tavern.

Chapter Two: Ruffgar

The dwarven village of Frostreach, sat high in the snowy peaks of the Dumahr Mountains. Homes and shops made of timber harvested from the forest surrounding the  village rested peacefully in the mountains, their inhabitants unchilled by the mountain’s harsh, icy climate. The Bloody Knuckle tavern was set in the center of the village, easily the most popular building in Frostreach. Dwarves were constantly gathered at the Bloody Knuckle to drink and catch up with friends. The village’s Council of Elders even held their meetings at the tavern’s long central table.

Inside the tavern, booths lined the walls and tables sat around the floor, surrounding the long table in the center of the tavern. The bar was located along the back wall, across from the thick oaken double doors. A large double-bladed, silver greataxe was mounted on the wall behind the bar. Torches set in strong iron braziers crafted by Frostreach’s best blacksmiths cast a strong orange glow about the tavern. The place was packed and friends had to lean in close over the tables to hear each other over the roar and laughter of other dwarves around the tavern.

The bartender, who also happened to be the owner of the Bloody Knuckle, stood behind the bar with crossed arms and a smug grin on his face, as he surveyed the overpacked tavern. Ruffgar was his name. Ruffgar was burly, even by dwarven standards. His strong face was hidden behind a snowy beard that hung well past his chin, and his hair hair matched it in length, swaying low beneath his shoulderblades. His broad torso bore a thick leather jerkin covered in a sheepskin cloak. Ruffgar chuckled to himself as he watched two patrons exchange blows, then he turned to make himself a drink.

He had just taken his first sip of the ale he had poured himself when the heavy double doors of the tavern slammed open, causing many heads in the tavern to turn. As the patrons saw the figure in the doorway, their voices suddenly stopped. A large Half-Orc stood glaring angrily at Ruffgar. His green tinted skin, dusted white by the snowfall outside, was covered in dark swirling tattoos which circled his arms and torso. He wore no shirt, just leather pants, thick black boots, and a heavy greatsword slung across his back. His long dark ponytail whipped about, blown this way and that by the fierce wind outside. The doors slammed shut behind him and he growled, showing off his thick, fang like teeth.

“Ruffgar!” he bellowed with a strong, thick voice, pointing directly at the dwarven bartender who stood with ale foam caught in his snowy mustache,  “I’m here to challenge you to a rematch.” The crowd gasped collectively at the half-orc’s words.

Ruffgar grinned and leapt over the bar, walking towards the half-orc in the doorway. “Cirim! I hope you’re prepared to lose again.”

Cirim smiled, showing off his sharp teeth again, and moved to embrace Ruffgar. “We’ll see about that!”

Cirim and Ruffgar descended the few steps to the center of the tavern and took places on either side of the long table directly across from each other. Ruffgar cracked his knuckles and placed his elbow in the center of the table, hand extended upwards. Cirim did the same, and the two grasped hands.

“On three,” Ruffgar clarified. “One...two...three!”

Instantly, the arm-wrestle began. Cirim and Ruffgar began pushing towards each other, elbows locked in place on surface of the table. Every eye in the tavern was locked on the pair, and bets were quietly made as to who would win. Last time the two wrestled like this, Ruffgar had come out victorious, but most of the patrons of the Bloody Knuckle believed the odds were stacked against the bartender. Cirim was much larger and therefore had the advantage of leverage because of his longer arms. But, despite Cirim’s apparent advantage, the battle of strength was far from over. Their hands stood locked in place, directly centered over their elbows. No matter how hard they pushed, neither could gain any ground.

Ruffgar grinned as he taunted the Half-Orc. “Come on Cirim, you can do better than that, can’t you?”

“You talk too much,” Cirim grunted, focused on beating Ruffgar.

Minutes went by as the pair struggled to gain any ground. Sweat dripped down Cirim’s brow, and Ruffgar smiled, faking a yawn. Annoyed by Ruffgar’s cockieness, Cirim growled and pushed on his hand with renewed determination. Still, Ruffgar did not budge. The ones who had placed their money in Cirim’s favor began to lose their initial feeling of confidence. So did Cirim himself, slowly realizing that he might be outmatched. Anger brewed inside of the Half-Orc, bringing about a new level of strength within him, but no matter how hard he tried, Ruffgar’s arm stood fast, locked in place.

Finally, Ruffgar grew tired of toying with his Half-Orc friend. With obvious ease, Ruffgar slammed Cirim’s hand onto the table. Most of the crowd groaned, and the sound of coins being exchanged could be heard throughout the tavern. The usual roar of loud dwarven voices began to fill the air once again.

“Looks like I win. Again,” Ruffgar said with a smile on his face.

“Bah! You must have cheated,” Cirim said.

“No cheating, just pure strength,” Ruffgar corrected him.

Cirim walked around the table and stooped low to pat Ruffgar on the back. “You are the strongest person I know, Ruffgar. Even stronger than the chiefs of my clan used to be.”

The two walked back towards the bar and Ruffgar resumed his usual place behind it as Cirim took a seat on a stool across from the Dwarf.

“Do you want anything to drink, Cirim?” Ruffgar asked.

“I’ll take the strongest drink you have,” Cirim said.

Ruffgar grinned. “Dragon Spit it is.”

“Dragon Spit?” Cirim inquired.

“It’s a special mixture. I brewed it myself a while ago and it’s been aging in the basement for quite some time now. It’s finally ready to serve. I tested it this morning and I swear I could breathe fire after just one sip! Follow me downstairs, I’ll pour you a glass.”

Cirim walked around to the other side of the bar where Ruffgar had lifted the trapdoor in the floor leading to the basement. Ruffgar descended first and Cirim followed. It was a tight fit for the large Half-Orc, and he had to crouch low to avoid hitting his head, but after climbing down the steps he was able to stand at his full height in the Bloody Knuckle’s cellar.

Ruffgar cursed as he stepped into the basement. The dirt floor was drenched in a mixture of different ales, providing an overwhelming scent of dirt and alcohol. Wooden splinters from shattered kegs were strewn about the room. The cellar was trashed. Ruffgar took off around the room picking up pieces of wood and looking for any kegs that were still in tact.

“Ruffgar,” Cirim said quietly, “I think you might want to see this.”

Ruffgar turned and went to stand next to the Half-Orc in the corner of the cellar They now stood in front of a round tunnel, about six or seven feet in diameter, heading down into the ground.

“No. It cannot be…” Ruffgar said.

“It must be. It has to be,” Cirim replied.

“I’m going upstairs to grab my axe,” Ruffgar said. “Those blasted ice-wurms are going to pay for ransacking my ale cellar.”