Salman still couldn’t remember who he was or what he’d been doing before the fall, but besides that everything was going swell. The mansion had all he could ask for. Everything, that is, but a cook.

He’d grown tired of his own cooking some time in the trek across the snowy hellscape of the Great White, during which they’d dined on the freshest food you can get. Now, trapped in the city, the prospects for delicious meals had dwindled to near zero. The hunters of the meat market kept all the best cuts for themselves and they’d be disbanded soon, anyway. Such is the way of civilization, he thought, fleeting and putrid.

The group kept themselves from starvation with the pre-stocked pantry, which was filled with fruits and bread already prepared. The problem came one morning as Salman made his way downstairs for what he thought would be a quick bite before continuing his arrow-sharpening. It was tiring, boring work, both of which make for a starvingly hungry dwarf. He made his way to the kitchen where he was met with a horrifying sight.

There, smack-dab in the middle of the tiled floor, laid Bauwls and Voolio. Their expressions were satisfied and their bellies were plump. And behind them, to Salman’s horror, was the once plentiful pantry, now barren as Jub.

“Excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat. The two floor dwellers got up, slow as can be.

“Hey, Salman,” Voolio said groggily. “What time is it?”

“Just after sunrise, half-orc,” Salman said, trying to stay calm. He walked past them to the now quite useless food storage area. Inside, he found nothing but crumbs and the occasional coin-eating fly. Vermin.

“Hey, Salman,” Voolio said again.

“Yes?” he responded, rummaging through what once had been a crate of jamberries.

“I’m kinda hungry,” Voolio said, patting his belly. “We should get something to eat.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Salman asked.

“We could go to a tavern,” Bauwls said, standing up. “The Smell has some nice food sometimes.” Salman, seeing no better option, agreed.

The three of them walked out the front door to a sprinkle of rain. Salman loved the rain. It reminded him of a time when he lived out in the world, away from the possibility of running out of food out of pure stupidity. They went silently on their way, Bauwls and Voolio apparently finding some amount of wonder in the outside world after being locked inside for multiple days straight. Salman only paid them mind when Bauwls changed direction. Instead, he spent his time looking upon what little nature there was in Rattwater: a patch of grass in front of a garden shop, lonely pines between brick. And of course, the sea. None of them, however, did anything but remind him he was in an oasis of grey and brown in a world of green and blue.

Bauwls slowed to a stop and looked at the shabby looking wood and stone building to their right.

“Here it is! Aren’t you excited?” she asked.

“Excited to eat something hot,” Salman said, stepping up to the door. He tried the knob but it didn’t open.

“Hello,” came a man’s voice from inside. A small eye hole opened above Salman’s head.

“Hello,” he said back, confused.

“We’d like to come in, please!” Bauwls said.

“Occasion?” the voice asked.

“Occasion?” Salman asked. What kind of tavern is this?, he thought.

“Yes,” the voice said, “what’s the occasion?”

“We’re celebrating!” Voolio said. “We want food and um… more food? I guess?”

“Hm… a celebration, you say?” There was some rattling from behind the door, then hushed whispers Salman couldn’t make out. Just as Salman was losing hope of finding a hot meal for once, the eyehole closed and the door swung open. Revealed was a scruffy looking man wearing what can only be described as “clothes.”

“Welcome!” he said. “Party of three?”

“Yes,” Salman said. The tavern was decorated with all kinds of animal heads and brightly colored contraptions Salman had no name for. Everywhere he looked was a cluster of old machinery from a tradition he had no knowledge of, surrounded on all sides by nauseatingly colorful sheets of fabric hanging from the ceiling. The whole thing strained his eyes.

The man led them past a mostly empty tavern floor, including the purple stained wood bar and stage, to a booth on the back wall. There they sat, Bauwls and Salman on one side of the table and Voolio on the other. The man returned to his post at the door but was quickly replaced by a waitress.

“What can I get started for you folks?” she asked, pulling out a small parchment and a quill.

“Oh, do you have mozzarella sticks?” Voolio asked.

“Why, yes we do, darlin’. One order of mozzarella sticks for the handsome orc. What about you, sweetie?” She looked at Bauwls with a ready writing hand.

“I don’t know. How about we supersize the mozzarella sticks and have them for the table?”

“Sure thing, lady. Now, anything for you, honey?” She looked at Salman.

“I’ll wait for the main course, ma’am,” he said.

“Ok, honey. Drinks?”

“Milk.”

“Milk.”

“Lemonade.”

“Alrighty! I’ll be back with those soon!” Then she was off.

Voolio said “What a nice lady!” but Salman didn’t hear him; his focus had narrowed to a pinhole. A few booths away, behind Voolio, was a man sitting alone. A bald, muscular man.

The man who’d saved his life.

Salman got up before the waitress returned with the drinks and made a beeline to him. The man, he couldn’t remember his name, didn’t notice him approaching until he was at the table.

“Sir,” Salman said, “are you…?”

“Hi!” he said, with the same smile as that day.

“So, it is you,” Salman said, sitting down. “I don’t think you gave me your name, or I must have forgotten it in my shock.”

“I’m Balder!” the man said.

“Balder, I must thank you for saving me all those weeks ago. I was a fool to try the water and you were kind to save me.”

“You’re welcome! What’s your name?” Balder still held his childlike smile.

“I am Salman the Stee- Salman the outlander.” He held out his hand but Balder didn’t even glance at it; he was too busy looking at something on the table. A short, grey-bearded something holding a stein and cackling. It said:

“I have obtained the cream soda, Balder!”

“What are you?” Salman asked, tilting his head to the side.

“I am Grockenstein, the wise and powerful! All will bow before m- oh, I’ve split a bit of cream soda there. Does anyone have a napkin? Waitress, could I perhaps have a napkin? Maybe two? Or three?” The waitress moped over to the table, handing the creature a napkin. “Yes, very good. Tallyho!” Salman could not have been more confused.

“I ask again, what are you?”

“I told you, dwarf! I am Grockenstein, the wise and powerful! Didn’t you hear me say so before?” He teleported to the seat next to Balder, though he had to stand to see over the table.

“Balder,” Salman said, “would you enlighten me, please?”

“He’s Grockie!”

“I’ve gathered that. But what is he?”

“I’m an elf! Look at my ears, fool!” He pointed to his ears, which pointed back at him.

“I see,” Salman said. “And I suppose you fancy yourself a mage, then?”

“I am a wizard! The greatest of all wizards! And don’t you forget it!” Grockenstein teleported on top of the table and stuck a scraggly finger in Salman’s face.

“Short for an elf, aren’t you?” Salman asked, unflinching.

“He beat me in a fight!” Balder said, smiling. Salman took stock of the two of them. Balder was still the demi-god he’d met all those weeks ago, tall and immovable. Grockenstein, on the other hand, was shorter than Dylk’s gnome friend and skinny with advanced age to boot.

“I’ve had enough of this!” Grockenstein said, then teleported back to the bar, leaving Salman alone with Balder.

“Can we be friends?” he asked, smile and eyes not faltering for a second. Even so, Salman felt no danger from him, only warmth.

“Yes, Balder, I believe we can,” Salman said, returning the smile. “Come, you must meet my companions. They will welcome you with open arms.”

“More friends?” Balder asked, getting up from the booth.

“More friends, indeed.” Salman led him back to the bewildered Voolio and Bauwls, who sat open-mouthed at him.

“Who’s that, Salman?” Bauwls asked.

“This is Balder. He saved my life weeks ago when I foolishly attempted to swim.”

“Hi!” said the man in question.

“Hi, Balder!” Voolio said. “Sit here, will ya?” He scooched over to make room for him. When everyone was seated, some more snuggly than others, the waitress returned with their drinks.

“Here’s the milk, milk, and lemonade. Now, are we ready to- Balder!” Her courteous smile changed into a genuine one. “Why are you sitting with these fine folks and not with yer elf friend?”

“I made friends, Caroline!” he said, beaming at her.

“Oh, I’m so glad, sugar!” She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Ain’t he the sweetest? Sorry! Your orders.”

“Can I have mac n’ cheese and apple juice again?” Balder asked.

“Of course you can, sweetie! And for the rest-a y’all?”

“Mac n’ cheese sounds good,” Voolio said.

“I’ll have some, too,” Bauwls said.

“One for me as well, ma’am,” Salman said.

“Alright, I’ll have those out faster than a beaverbear on the first day of summer!” Then she was off again.

“Hey, Balder,” Bauwls said excitedly.

“Yeah?”

“Have you heard of Moosa?”

“Who’s Moosa?”

Another long theological discussion later, they had finished their food and were ready to head out. But as they were rising from the table, Salman heard a slamming on the front door and screams from outside:

“I know you’re hiding them, open this door! I am a lord of the council!”

Before Salman could alert the others to the situation, the door was open, revealing a suave looking middle-aged man wearing purple noble’s garb that matched the tavern. Suave looking, that is, if not for his gritted teeth and eyes that said “next person to touch me won’t touch anything ever again.”

The man rushed to their table through the empty dance floor, drawing a knife from his side, but stopped short of Salman’s drawn arrow.

“Lord Garrel, I presume?” Salman asked.

“Yes, and you will not speak to me in that tone, dwarf!” He spat as he talked, his face growing hot and red.

“And what have you come here for?” Salman asked, cool as a cucumber.

“You know damn well what I’ve come here for!” he said, mocking the question.

“I’ve got all day. Explain yourself,” Salman said. He couldn’t see the others behind him but he could sense that he wasn’t the only one with his weapon drawn.

“Tell me, dwarvish filth, for what purpose did you BURN DOWN MY HOME?” The lord’s face looked about ready to burst.

“Your guards attacked my companions. They killed one of them, actually. This one here.” Salman nudged his shoulder to where he thought Bauwls was. Garrel looked confused by that but continued:

“And why, pray tell, did they attack you?”

“Simple,” Salman said, “we found your little diary, councilman. And we killed your pet, too.” Garrel’s red face contorted even further.

“And what proof do you have of this… this… claim? Do you have this ‘diary’ with you, dwarf?”

“No, the sabro has it, Garrel,” Salman said, stretching his bow string taut.

“Oh, I see! So, you don’t have it with you! Ha! What a farce this is! Diary! No fool would believe that, much less the council of Rattwater!” Salman leaned forward swiftly, pressing the tip of his arrow into Garrel’s cheek, drawing a drop of blood.

“Are you willing to take that chance, councilman?”

“I… I… I will make this right, you scoundrels! Coming into our city and slandering the council! Fools, all of you!” Garrel looked around the room to Coraline, the bartender and the doorman, then sprinted out before anyone could respond.

“We won’t be having any trouble from him anymore,” Salman said, quivering the arrow and replacing his bow onto his back.

“Why do ya say that?” Voolio asked.

“I have a feeling that our friend won’t be staying in Rattwater much longer.” He called Coraline over for the check.