Challenge Participant The Treasure Was Friendship and Inside Us All Along (But Also An Extremely Rare Ingredient For God-Tier Hair Tonic Under A Ruin in Faerûn)

[firefly]

The Treasure Was Friendship and Inside Us All Along
(But Also An Extremely Rare Ingredient For A God-Tier Hair Tonic Under A Ruin in Faerûn)

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Bromleaf Ironwood was a stout man. A robust man. A gorgeous man – though he would deny it profusely and with a bright pink flush on his cheeks if anybody ever suggested such a thing.

"Gods, ain't you hotter than a forge at full bellows."

Brom flushed bright pink and sputtered under his red beard.

"Sir, please! We are here conducting business, do try to control yourself!"

The other dwarf's mouth twitched underneath a short, bristly beard the colour of soot, and Brom took a nervous side-step away. It wasn't a very big step considering his stature, but what he may have lacked in height, he made up for in width. This quality seemed to please the other man who repeatedly raked his dark eyes over the bard, idling frequently at the stunning display of facial hair that cascaded over his chest and well past his belt buckle.

You couldn't fault him, of course, it was a glorious sight. One could say that Bromleaf was approximately fifty-percent hair. It poured from his head and cheeks like a blazing mane of Dwarven prowess, as if it were born from the fires of Moradin's forge itself. Every shiny strand was impeccably groomed, and those not restrained in a neat braid wavered fluidly with every slight shift in his movement.

"Your beard is very…symmetrical."

The man said this in a very matter-of-fact way, but somehow managed to weave enough suggestiveness into his tone that it made Brom cough suddenly. "And I've not seen such volume since our local gnome druid accidentally added hair tonic to the kegs instead of Potion of Merriment."

Brom's coughing stopped short, and he bristled.

"Hair tonic! Is your pick made of mushrooms!? No display of facial hair to be proud of can be gained with cheap tactics such as tonics. A healthy beard is hard won through a rigorous regiment of grooming, healthy diet, and meticulously formulated topicals–"

He stopped short when the other man stepped closer and raised a flaming torch over their heads. His dark eyes glittered most alluringly, making Brom gulp imperceptibly under his beard.

"Aye, yes. I see now. Forgive me, Bromleaf. In the darkness I failed to appreciate the true beauty…of the beard."

He was now standing very close, peering intently at Brom with a small, crooked smile beneath his roughly trimmed moustache. His dusky skin glowed warmly in the firelight, and Brom could not ignore the swell of his forearms as they strained against roughly rolled sleeves– the iconic sign of long days spent behind a Dwarven forge and bent over ancestral anvils. He was lean and rough and smelled like his workshop. His tunic strained against the hard width of his chest and across the tightness of his– Moradin's Bellows, that buckle! Such shine, such craftsmanship, surely a dwarven-made heirloom! He stared down at it, open-mouthed.

"Seems the dark's keepin' somethin' from your eyes, too. Would you like a closer look?"

Brom's gut, by contrast, was a round and sturdy thing (most of you will know that this is a highly desired feature among the Mountain Dwarves), and it fluttered distractingly as if someone had loosed a handful of butterflies inside it.

"I–it's–yes…so very dark…in here." Brom replied,

"Mmmm." And it was only a rumble.

A short silence followed, filling the cavernous space and bouncing around the ancient, crumbling walls. Brom didn't quite know what to say, he could only stare and think about the fact that dwarves had rather good vision in the dark, and was he leaning towards the smithy as though pulled by an invisible thread? Gods, has this thick armed tempter bewitched me !? But, being slightly forward-heavy for most of his life, unintentional leaning did sometimes happen in the day-to-day activities of a man his stature. He dismissed it from his mind quite quickly.

In the distance, there was a sudden, muffled noise of falling stone and both men jumped, ending their mutual reverie.

"Are you sure yer friend will be alright by himself?" The smithy asked. He squinted dubiously at the cracked wall at the other end of the room, beyond which was the source of the noises.

"Dae'mon? Oh, yes. He'll find a way into the bowels of this place. He's a very capable man."

There was another crash, followed by a dulled string of colourful swear words.

"...mostly capable." Brom corrected, beginning to doubt if their decision to split up and cover more area was a sound one and feeling very guilty for it. Dae'mon wasn't a child or a blundering fool that needed to be kept within reach at all times, he was a seasoned Fighter– larger than life both metaphorically and physically. Though their companionship had only just begun, the Goliath had soon become a true and loyal friend and deserved his trust, even if they weren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

"Capable, eh? Good, good…" He said quietly, pulling out a pipe from his pocket and grasping it between his teeth. He looked at Brom carefully over the top while lighting it. "So are you two…?"

"Yes. We're very close." Brom said, nodding earnestly and innocently. "We've found ourselves in some very tight positions already. Really! You wouldn't believe the hardness and stamina that this man has displayed. Repeatedly! On several occasions in one day, even!"

The pipe fell from the dwarf's lips and he fumbled with it frantically before it could reach the stone floor. He made to step backwards and caught himself at the last moment.

"Topsider's tits!" He grumbled, looking down near his boots and scowling. "This ruin is in good shape. Masonry looks elvish. Still, I can't say what it would take to send the whole thing a'shatterin like shale in a storm. We'd best stay as sharp as Marbella here and watch our step."

He gave the axe at his hip an affectionate pat while Brom came up alongside him, and both dwarves peered down at the cold stone thoughtfully. Eventually, there were more muted noises, and some swearing, this time coming from overhead. The Blacksmith looked up at the ceiling and pushed his smoking pipe back between his lips.

"You never did say what had us trekkin' all the way up here in the dead of night." He said, looking sideways at him. Smoke poured languidly from his nostrils and Brom took a subtle step away. Pipe smoke was hugely detrimental to maintaining desirable lustre in beards. "Imagine my surprise and disappointment at finding you at my doorstep in the late evening enquiring about a rumour and escort rather than an after-supper drink. And with a…close friend in tow."

Brom lifted a hand and attempted to waft some errant smoke away from him. The man smiled to himself.

"So, what is it then? What glitter do yer think's in this cranny, eh?"

"An ingredient." he replied simply, studiously avoiding his gaze. "For a…tonic."

The man turned to look at him and raised a dark eyebrow.

"A hair tonic?"

Brom huffed and crossed his arms.

"It's not for me!" he blustered, earning a chuckle from the blacksmith.

"Alright, alright! Must be for another close friend if it's got yer crawling 'round ruins in the dark like this."

Brom didn't reply, but gained a wistful expression on his face. They stood inside the bowls of a small ruin of what looked like a tower once, long ago. Through a jagged, gaping hole in the wall, the spindle-like towers of Candlekeep glinted like starlight in the distance. Within, their cleric Tovia would likely be deep into a pile of books in the Great Library even at this late hour, and Holly might still be attempting to resolve territory disputes between the local rat clans on the third floor. Brom smiled to himself, he could picture it quite clearly– the slender druid with frost-blue skin, likely on the floor, whispering earnestly under her breath to some sort of critter and making wisps of her snow-white hair dance around her face. Her…hair.

Brom groaned and put a hand over his belly, suddenly feeling nauseous. He got this way every time he thought of Holly's hair, which was often these days. Ever since…the incident. He shivered and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the nightmarish visions, but it's almost like he could still feel it clutched in his first– the serpent, the creature's braid, suddenly not what he thought it was, dissolving into a long, silver plait that fell like mercury from between his fingers. Worst of all was Holly's face, filled with shock as she stared between him and the length of her braid clutched in his shaking fist.

"I didn't mean it! It was an accident! I thought there was a Medusa, and–and–"

Brom started to cry.

"Easy there, Forge-mate."

A hand was on his shoulder, firm and heavy and real. Without it, Brom felt like he might have fallen through the ruin floor.

"Steel's made stronger every time it's struck. It'll be alright, whatever it is."

The hand pulled, and Brom followed, finding himself mostly wrapped in arms that were very strong and a chest that was very warm. Only mostly wrapped because Brom was, of course, exceptionally wide.

This is…nice. Brom thought to himself between loud, wet sniffles against the blacksmith's tunic.

Just as he began to sink further into the embrace, a sharp crack sounded above their heads.

"Uh-oh." Came the voice overhead.

"Uh-oh?" The man asked, still holding Brom. "What does 'uh-oh' mea–"

Brom didn't wait for him to finish his question, instead gripping him by the collar and yanking them both sideways as the cracking sound splintered, spreading in an echoing staccato around the ruin. No sooner had they both hit the ground with loud huffs did the ceiling come down in an explosion of stone, mortar, and overgrown vegetation, crashing loudly straight through the floor and sending up a big mushroom-shaped cloud of dust from below.

"Moradin's balls!" the blacksmith exclaimed, scrambling to his feet and hoisting Brom up by the arms.

"No! Dae'mon!!" Brom cried, rushing to the edge of the newly created chasm.

Dust swirled in the opening, obscuring the view of the floor beneath the ground level. Dread gripped Brom's heart and he choked back his panic while looking frantically around for any sign of his friend.

"Can ye see him?"

"No, oh Gods, I don't see him! Dae'mon! Answer me, please!"

Then, in the stream of moonlight now permitted through the ruin from the gaping hole in the ceiling, something stirred, coughed, and swore.

"Oh, so you are talking to me, huh? Turns out all I needed to do was to find you something shiny!"

The dust cleared, and down below Dae'mon stood staring up with a wide grin, contagious despite the pale dust that coated him and almost obscured his face. He was standing with his hands on his hips, and a leg triumphantly propped on top of a large, gleaming treasure chest. Brom blinked, and then barked a laugh before clamping his arm over his mouth. Residual tears streamed down his cheeks and he rubbed his face in the crook of his arms quickly. Moonlight streamed through the new gaping hole in the ceiling of the ruin, highlighting his friend's grinning face down below.

"You beardless, goblin-loving oaf!" Brom hissed, though laughing giddily. Soon, Dae'mon joined him, making the walls shudder with deep belly-laughs.

"Well, I suppose you were right. He is quite capable afterall." the other dwarf said, apparently eager to cut into their joviality.

"We weren't here for gold, sir. We still need something far more important than that." Brom replied, shaking his head but still grinning down the hole.

"No, not that, stonebrother. That."

Brom followed the man's gaze and gasped.

"Cinder my whiskers." Brom breathed, eyes sparkling with delight. "Dae'mon, you big, beautiful, boulder-sized beauty! You found it! Look there!"

Brom pointed enthusiastically at the fruit of his friend's unorthodox efforts – an orange glow drifting eerily from the dark still persisting in the ruin's secret room. Whisker-root Fungus. Brom could just make out Dae'mon making his way over, far too joyful to appreciate the dubious way the goliath seemed to be tilting his head at the supposed 'real' treasure.

"Thank you, sir!" Brom said, grasping the other dwarf's hand and shaking it. "You don't know how much you've helped me! I'm ashamed to say, I don't think I caught your name all this time, but thanks to you I can begin to heal, both my heart and something very dear to me. On top of payment, please say you'll accept a few rounds at the tavern the next evening, it's the least we can do!"

There was a sound of general enthusiastic approval from down below, but it wasn't like the goliath needed encouragement in that regard. Any excuse for a few rounds at the tavern was a good excuse.

The man nodded, pulling on his pipe and looking at Brom through the swirling smoke with that telltale glimmer in his eyes.

"Aye, that'd be a fine way to begin the additional compensation." he said quietly.

Brom's laughter died, and he again flushed and awkwardly cleared his throat. Only this time, the open-air architecture made it impossible to hide the bright redness in his cheeks.

Louder, he said, "The name's Björn. Björn Liefgar."

Brom's eyes grew very wide over the beetroot mounds of his cheeks. Björn grinned devilishly.

"Good name. Strong name." Dae'mon called back, nodding approvingly. He crouched near the thing that was apparently going to 'mend the strands of hair so cruelly cut from the braids of a loved one and thereby repair the severed threads in the weave of a friendship'. Whatever the hell that meant. He didn't get why everyone made such a fuss about hair and he thought Holly looked pretty cool with the new 'do. On top of all of that, he also didn't understand half of what his half-sized friend ever said, what with all the big words and all.

But, none of that mattered, because his friends needed his help, and this is what friends did for each other-- fall through ceilings of ancient ruins to pick weird mushrooms.

Only half paying attention, as usual, he called out over his shoulder and gave the luminescent fungi an experimental sniff. "Your name. What'sit mean?"

Above the sound of shuffled steps and soft grunts of the Goliath hefting the treasure chest to his shoulders and stuffing the clusters of Whisker-root into his pockets, Bromleaf fell into a fit of sudden coughing, just loud enough to drown out Björn's low reply.

"It means leaf-eating bear."

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