My friend Danny Wright wrote this story. I helped polish and edit his words, but the story is his. Thorim is one character he plays with our small online Dungeons & Dragons group. Dreamstalker is, of course, my goliath barbarian.

Thorim Deepbreaker stopped at the bottom of the stairs of the Hammer and Anvil Inn, where he’d spent a blessed night in a proper bed. It was a welcome change from a pile of weeds and a blanket beside a campfire for the first time in months. The Inn took its name from the Symbol of Moradin, the Dwarven God of Creation he worshiped. When he’d spied the large red bronzed hammer and anvil hanging above the door, he knew he’d be among friends. While the greeting was welcoming enough, the news of his new “Temple” was a great disappointment. There was no “Temple” for him to supervise. Instead, small shrines replaced the original temples in the city and moved to a place called the “Temple Plaza”.

The plaza was a big circle with shrines, and in the middle was a grand statue of High Princess Nabar made of fancy crystal, surrounded by a pool of water and fountains. She has ruled the city for 100’s of years. High Princess Nabar is recognized as a clever negotiator and feared by her enemies, while also being worshipped as a goddess by her people. She has never denied these claims. Thorim felt a deep dislike and distrust of this princess immediately. After breaking his fast, he intended to visit his shrine, and do what he could to induce followers to visit.

Thorim let his gaze wander the large common room with its many tables and mostly dwarf customers. As a Mountain Dwarf, he was easily a head taller than any he’d seen so far, also considerably wider, with heavier bones and thicker muscles. At five foot, two inches tall, and weighing one hundred and seventy-five pounds, he had to admit he stood out in this crowd. He had medium length, flame red hair and beard, carefully groomed, especially his sweeping mustache, of which he was quite proud. His eyes were emerald green, set wide in his thick skull. His face, hands, and forearms were a leathery dark brown, toasted by the fires of furnace and forge over many years. Beneath his clothing, protected skin was pale pink, with light freckles.

The Dwarven Acolyte spotted his fellow caravan guard and battle companion in the far corner, in the shadows, of course. The female Goliath was some years younger than him, and a bit of a puzzle he was still piecing together. In battle against bandits and highwaymen, she was hell in a handbasket. Which assumed you could fit a seventeen-year-old, seven foot tall, two hundred and fifty pound female goliath swinging a massive greataxe in your hand basket. She was a fury and a sight to see! Mostly, Thorim stood to one rear quarter or the other, and guarded her flanks. At first, the big girl was reclusive and distrustful of the rest of the guards, keeping to herself. All they got in response to friendly overtures was angry glares and menacing growls of warning. She had a terrifying look with her braided black hair, stone beads, and dark blue tattoos on her pale blue/gray face.

After a battle or two, she eased up a bit, especially after receiving a terrible slash in her arm, shoulder, and upper chest. Thorim was close enough to work his Divine blessing of Cure Wounds on her. It shocked the girl for a moment as the horrible wound healed completely, instantly putting her right back into the battle. That evening, she played her hand carved flute for the caravaners for the first time, all gathered around the community fire. A subtle magic permeated her ethereal music. The expressions on listeners’ faces softened, and eyes glazed as they seemed to float away to distant places on the notes. Each song was different and seemed to speak of places to which the music transported them. The cheers and “horahs!” were thunderous when she drifted back to her bed at the far edge of camp. Thorim might have been mistaken, but he swore he saw a smile and glitter of joy in her eyes, ’though that may have just been the firelight.

The trip from the high mountains, through the hills, the rolling forests, and into the river plains took much longer than expected. The attacks on the ox harnessed caravan wagons were more frequent than they’d been told to expect. They transported engraved stone blocks, for Moradin’s sake! Thorim never could understand what the raggedy arsed buggers were after. They beat the brigands back, mostly because of the insane attacks by DreamStalker and her greataxe. Well, Thorim did help, here and there.

Every day, Thorim woke earlier than everybody but the cook, to sneak over to Zola’s bush camp and laid a hand on her weapon. He gave it the Blessing of the Forge for the day. She caught him the first time he tried to bless her axe, going into a boiling fury about him touching her stuff. He thought he was about to lose his head! At least she was a cussing Thorim in a language he did not understand. After that, he was a wee bit more cautious.

“Hey, Ya beanstalk! How’d ya git back here without raisin’ lumps on yer head from the’ beams?” Thorim greeted her with a grin as he sat beside her, facing outward as she was.

“‘Mornin, Runt. Guess bed not short fer you? Mine fits short Kobold.” Dreamstalker replied grumpily, but then grinned. “Slept on floor.”