HAMSTRUNG
The Merry Ent Tavern
The Town of Triell, Somewhere in Faerûn
“The bloke’s dead. Gotta be. Ain’t no way a man survives somethin’ like that ‘less he’s got a debt hanging o’er his ass from a God or devil!”
There was a low murmur of agreement around the table, with a lot of sombre nods and thoughtful beard stroking. The group of dwarves, members of the Stonebeard Sanitation crew, uniformly drank from their tankards for approximately six seconds and then belched loudly in unison.
The locally renowned outfit, who were specialised in post-battle and magical misadventure cleanup, was a common site at The Merry Ent. You could find them there most evenings, gathered around the same table with more empty tankards than the barmaids could keep up with. Used to be that they’d also be covered with all sorts of byproducts of their work, but then Big Hessy the Tavern Keep received too many complaints about the state of them and that’s how there came to be a sign at the entrance that stated,
“PATRONS MUST BE CLEAN.
NO DIRT, GRIME, OR FLUIDS (YES, EVEN IF THEY SPARKLE).”
NO DIRT, GRIME, OR FLUIDS (YES, EVEN IF THEY SPARKLE).”
“Right you are, Kuggam. Musta been ‘bout a dozen kegs a’blood we mopped up,” another added between puffs of smoke from his pipe, “Ain’t seen the likes a’that since that incident with the minotaur in the china shop.”
More murmurs and beard stroking.
“Aye, well, he was a big bloke. Even for a half-Orc,” Kuggam added, “What was his name? Something…meaty…”
“Was it a bear, ye think?” A smaller one (even for a Dwarf) called Garbit asked, looking worriedly between his colleagues. “Or…or a Bugbear!?”
“Don’t be dull, you moss brain!” Thaggod replied, smoke still pouring between his orange beard, “Ain’t no Bugbears ‘round these parts. Besides, gotta be bigger than a Bugbear.”
“...sausage? No, that’s daft. Something smoked…?” Kuggam muttered quietly to himself, scratching his chin.
“Gods! Was it a Hill Giant!?” Someone exclaimed, staring agape at Thaggod and grasping his neighbour so roughly it caused him to choke on a mouthful of ale.
Thaggod kicked him under the table. It missed, because his legs are, of course, Dwarf-sized, and got his neighbour instead. “Not that big, you boulder-brained git! How’s that supposed ter fit inside a house!?”
The neighbouring Dwarf, with wet-beard and sore shins, clambered from his seat and headed to the other side of the table, muttering crass curses under his beard.
“A Warg!” Someone else shouted.
“Nay, a Golem!” Another chimed in.
“Ohh, what if it was a Succubus and their night of heated passion turned violent,” Garbit said with a hand partly covering his mouth. He blushed and looked abashedly around the table.
Thaggod stared back at him grim-faced. “In the Mayor’s house, Garbit? Really?”
Garbit buried his pink face inside his tankard.
“HAM!” Kuggam exclaimed suddenly, slamming his hand on the table in triumph. “His name is Ham! Knew it was somethin’ meaty.”
“The fuck kinda name is Ham?” Someone asked.
“Maybe it’s short for Hamildon.” Garbit suggested helpfully.
“Good name. Strong name.” One of the Dwarves commented approvingly.
“For a strong bloke! Fists the size of boulders, that one!”
The table noise rose to a rumble of approving grumbles and slurps of ale.
“It’s odd, though,” Thaggod said, ignoring them all and staring into the fire thoughtfully, “Nobody seen nothin’ comin’ outta that house afterward, big or small.”
“Nah, there was someone small,” Kuggam sniggered, waving over a barmaid, “That little blue bastard who’s always stealing sausages and giving it to the dog.”
“His name is Grek.” Garbit said, “I know because he says it a lot, like all the time.”
Thaggod huffed, making his big belly jiggle, and winked at the barmaid after she refreshed his ale. “Could ye imagine? Almost slain by a Kobold!”
Garbit giggled. “How embarrassing.”
“Gods. I’d rather die.” Kuggam replied, shivering. The entire table echoed his sentiments, shaking their heads disgustedly or making warding signs across their shoulders as if the very thought of such a thing was evil.
“Saw that Grek feller in the infirmary afterwards. Was covered in blood, but not had one scratch on ‘im!” One of the crewmen said.
“I think he was that Ham’s friend,” Kuggam replied, “Looked like they were close. Maybe the Kobold tried to stop the bleeding or something. Can’t think of any other reason he’d get so bloody like that.”
“That poor little guy, musta been so scared.” Garbit said sadly, staring into his mug.
“Just goes to show ya, hey lads?” Thaggod said solemnly, “No matter how big, or fierce, or manly, or handsome you are. Fate can fell ya in one sudden, terrible, and bloody blow as if you were a mere lizard with only a little pointy stick.”
___________
The Infirmary
Somewhere in the Town of Triell
A small party of unlikely friends gathered around the infirmary bed, bending low over the (rather large) prone figure of their green friend; a small blue kobold perched on top of his chest.
“None of this leaves that house, or this room.” Rasped the half-Orc known as Ham. “You hear me?”
Something glinted in the low light of the infirmary, sharp and silver. Ham flinched, and one of them hissed, “For Goddess’s sake, Grek! Put your rapier away! Can’t you see the poor thing has PTSD!?”
It didn’t matter that it had all been an accident, and it didn’t matter that nobody would ever believe the truth were it ever told to them. The damage had been done, and Ham, for one, would never forget.