Four Days Later - Western Wastelands
The landscape had changed dramatically over the past few days.
Green forests gave way to rolling plains.
Plains gave way to cracked, reddish soil.
And now, as the sun beat down mercilessly, they found themselves in a true wasteland.
"It's hot," Serra said quietly, wiping sweat from her brow.
"The western wastelands are always like this," Elara said, her voice unbothered despite the heat. "No vegetation means no shade. The ground absorbs heat during the day and releases it at night."
Seravelle, still riding behind Arden, was fascinated.
"The soil composition is fascinating! The red coloration suggests high solar mana. And the cracking pattern indicates extreme temperature fluctuations between day and night. I wonder if there are any unique mineral deposits—"
"Seravelle," Arden interrupted gently. "Save the geological analysis for later."
"Right! Sorry!"
In the distance, a structure appeared on the horizon.
Massive. Imposing. Constructed from blocks of red stone.
"Is that...?" Serra started.
"Ironhold Fortress," Arden confirmed. "Castle city donated by the dwarves to the Dukedom four hundred years ago to honor their friendship."
"It's huge," Seravelle breathed.
As they drew closer, the fortress's details became clearer.
And more... chaotic.
The original dwarven construction was magnificent—perfectly symmetrical, masterfully crafted, every stone placed with precision.
But around and over it, humans had built.
Private homes. Markets. Watchtowers.
All constructed with far less skill and care.
The result was a jarring mix of dwarven mastery and human improvisation.
"It's messy," Elara observed clinically.
"The dwarves must hate this," Arden said. "Their perfect creation turned into... this."
"Will they even talk to us?" Serra asked. "If they're that offended by what happened to their fortress..."
"That's exactly why they'll talk to us," Arden said cryptically. "Or rather, why they'll talk to me."
He urged his horse forward, toward the fortress gates.
The guards recognized the Valekrest crest immediately.
"Lord Arden! We weren't expecting you!"
"Send word to the Western Legion Commander. Tell him the heir to the Valekrest Dukedom requests an audience."
The guards scrambled to comply.
----
Commander Wilhelm of the Western Legion was a weathered man in his fifties.
He'd served on the western border for thirty years.
And for the past two months, he'd been dealing with an impossible diplomatic situation.
"Lord Arden," he said, bowing respectfully. "This is unexpected. What brings the heir of Valekrest to the western wastelands?"
"The dwarves," Arden said bluntly. "Where are they?"
Wilhelm's expression soured.
"Gone. They left three weeks ago."
"Left? I was told a dwarven diplomatic delegation was residing here."
"They were residing here. For about two days. Then they looked around, saw what we'd done to their fortress, and left in what I can only describe as... a huff."
Arden had to suppress a smile.
Exactly as I expected. Dwarves and their pride in craftsmanship.
"Where did they go?"
"If you head two days west of here, there's a small hill. They've been camping there for the past month."
"Why camping? Why not return to their holds?"
Wilhelm shrugged helplessly.
"Stubbornness? Pride? I don't know. They won't talk to anyone. We've sent three diplomatic envoys—all ignored. I personally brought them fine wines from across the kingdom. They didn't even acknowledge me."
He looked at Arden with weary skepticism.
"With respect, Lord Arden, I don't think you'll have any more success than the others. The dwarves have clearly decided they want nothing to do with humans."
Arden studied the commander carefully.
"Commander Wilhelm, I need supplies. Fifty kegs of your strongest alcohol. Not the fine wines—the cheap stuff your soldiers drink. And a guide who can lead us to the dwarven camp."
Wilhelm blinked.
"Fifty kegs? Of soldier's brew?"
"Yes."
"Lord Arden, I appreciate the attempt, but I've already tried gifting them alcohol. It didn't work."
"Because you gave it to them. You didn't drink with them."
Wilhelm stared.
"I... what?"
Arden leaned forward.
"Commander, how much do you know about dwarf culture?"
"I know they're stubborn, obsessed with craftsmanship, and apparently hate what we've done to their fortress."
"All true. But more importantly—dwarves don't make friends through gifts and formalities. They make friends by drinking together. Sharing alcohol. Getting drunk side by side."
"That's... that seems too simple."
"It's not simple. It's cultural. Dwarves view shared drinking as a sign of trust. If you won't drink with them, they assume you're hiding something. Being dishonest."
Wilhelm frowned.
"Even if that's true, why would they drink with us now? They've already rejected every diplomatic overture."
Arden smiled slightly.
"Because I'm not a diplomat. I'm the heir to Valekrest. My family has ancestral ties to the dwarves—old treaties, old friendships."
"And you think that will be enough?"
"I think it will get them to listen. And once they're listening, we drink. And once we're drinking, we become friends. And once we're friends, they'll talk business."
Wilhelm still looked skeptical, but he nodded slowly.
"I'll prepare the kegs. But Lord Arden... why are you doing this? Surely the Duke could send proper diplomats. People trained in negotiation."
"Because proper diplomats will fail. The dwarves don't care about training or credentials. They care about honesty and tradition. And I have both."
He stood, preparing to leave.
"Also, Commander—I'll need a day before we leave. I need to test my companions' alcohol tolerance."
"Their... what?"
"If I'm going to drink with dwarves, I need to know who can keep up. So I'll be hosting a drinking contest. Tonight. With my companions."
Wilhelm stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
"A drinking contest. Before a diplomatic mission."
"Exactly."
"That's... insane."
"That's preparation." Arden smiled. "Trust me, Commander. This is how you negotiate with dwarves."
-----
Arden stood before his three companions in a large hall the Commander had provided.
Serra, Elara, and Seravelle.
Around them, soldiers rolled in several kegs of strong-smelling alcohol.
"Alright," Arden said. "Here's the situation. Tomorrow, we're going to meet the dwarves. And when we do, we're going to drink. A lot. So tonight, I need to know your limits."
Serra looked uncertain.
"I've never really drunk much..."
"That's fine. I need to know your tolerance anyway. Even if it's low."
Elara's expression remained neutral.
"You want us to get drunk. Before a diplomatic mission."
"I want to know if you can get drunk, and how much it takes. There's a difference."
Seravelle's eyes sparkled.
"Oh! This is fascinating! Testing physiological responses to ethanol consumption! I've read about this but never participated—"
"Seravelle. Focus."
"Right! So we just... drink?"
"You drink. As much as you can. I'll keep track of your limits."
He gestured to the kegs.
"The rules are simple. Drink as much as you can. Don't drink fast—drink consistently. I'll count how many tankards each of you manages."
The three women exchanged glances.
Then, simultaneously, they all nodded.
I really hope this doesn't get out of hand
----
Serra was the first to fill her tankard.
She sipped carefully, her face scrunching at the taste.
"It's... strong."
"It's supposed to be. Keep going."
She took another sip, then another, gradually building confidence.
Elara, meanwhile, approached her tankard with refined precision.
She lifted it with elegant grace.
And downed it in three measured pulls.
No expression change.
No visible reaction.
She simply refilled her tankard with the same elegant motion and continued.
She drinks like she fights, Arden thought. Controlled. Efficient. Beautiful.
Seravelle approached her first drink with scientific curiosity.
"The alcohol content seems quite high. The aroma suggests grain-based distillation with—"
"Seravelle. Drink."
"Right!"
She took a sip.
Paused.
Her eyes went wide.
"Oh! It tingles! And it's warm going down! How fascinating!"
An hour passed.
Serra was on her third tankard, her face flushed but still coherent.
"I'm... I'm fine. Totally fine. Can keep going."
Her words were only slightly slurred.
Elara was on her seventh tankard.
Her face color remained unchanged.
Her movements still graceful, refined, perfectly controlled.
If not for the sharp tang of alcohol on her breath, one could believe she hadn't drunk at all.
She grabbed her eighth tankard with the same elegant precision as her first.
'Glug glug glug.'
Down it went.
How is she doing that? Arden wondered. No visible intoxication. No loss of coordination. Nothing.
Seravelle was on her fifth tankard and had become... enthusiastic.
"Arden! Did you know that alcohol affects different parts of the brain in sequence? First the prefrontal cortex, which handles judgment, then the limbic system, which handles emotions, and then—"
"Seravelle, maybe slow down."
"But I'm fine! I feel wonderful! Everything is so interesting!"
Stars literally sparkled in her already carmine eyes.
Two hours passed.
Serra was on her fifth tankard and struggling.
"How... how many have I had?"
"Five."
"That's... that's pretty good, right?"
"It's respectable."
She beamed at the compliment, then immediately looked queasy.
"I think... I think I need to stop."
"That's fine. You did well."
Serra carefully set down her tankard and moved to sit against the wall.
Five tankards. Not bad for someone with no tolerance.
Elara was on her twelfth tankard.
Finally, there was the slightest flush to her cheeks.
The barest hint that the alcohol was affecting her.
But her movements remained refined. Elegant. Controlled.
She lifted her thirteenth tankard with the same grace as her first.
"How are you doing this?" Arden asked, genuinely impressed.
Elara paused, lowering her tankard slightly.
"I don't enjoy it," she said simply. "But I know I can drink more than them."
Her voice was quiet. Confident. Matter-of-fact.
This is just... natural now.
Seravelle was on her ninth tankard.
And she had transitioned from enthusiastic to... affectionate.
"Arden! You're sooooo smart! Teaching me all the hand gestures! And you're so patient! And—"
She swayed, reaching out to steady herself.
On his shoulder.
Very close.
Very... pressed against him.
"Seravelle, maybe you should—"
"I'm fine! Completely fine! Never been better!"
She beamed at him, her face inches from his.
From across the hall, Serra—who was supposed to be resting—was suddenly very alert.
Elara, mid-drink, paused.
Her eyes tracked to where Seravelle was practically draped over Arden.
The tankard lowered slowly.
Deliberately.
Her expression didn't change, but something in her gaze went cold.
Sharp.
"Seravelle," Elara said, her voice cutting across the hall like ice. "You're done. Sit down."
"But I can keep going!"
"No. You're done."
The authority in Elara's voice was absolute.
Even drunk, Seravelle recognized it.
"Oh. Okay."
She carefully moved away from Arden and sat down.
Leaving Elara as the last one standing.
Arden studied her.
Thirteen tankards.
Still functional.
Still graceful.
"Alright. You win. You're coming with me to meet the dwarves."
"What about them?" Elara gestured to Serra and Seravelle with refined precision.
"Serra did well enough. She can come. Seravelle..."
He looked at where the white-haired woman was now happily examining her own hands, fascinated by how her fingers moved.
"Seravelle probably shouldn't drink with the dwarves. But she can observe. Her knowledge might be useful."
Elara nodded once.
"Understood."
----
Serra woke with a splitting headache.
"Oh gods. Why did I agree to that?"
Seravelle woke with boundless energy.
"That was amazing! I've never experienced altered consciousness like that! The way perception shifts, the way emotions amplify—"
"Seravelle. Please. Quieter."
Elara woke exactly as she'd gone to sleep.
Perfectly fine.
No hangover.
No visible after-effects.
How? Serra thought miserably. How is she fine?
They prepared to leave.
Three horses, two wagons loaded with kegs.
Just the four of them.
"Alright," Arden said as they mounted up. "Today, we meet the dwarves. Remember—let me do the talking initially. Follow my lead. And when the drinking starts, pace yourselves."
"Except me," Seravelle said cheerfully. "I'm observing, not drinking."
"Except you."
They rode west, into the wasteland.
Toward a small hill in the distance.
Toward the dwarven camp.
Toward what Arden hoped would be the beginning of a crucial alliance.
This has to work, he thought. The north needs the dwarves. Their craftsmen, their resources, their knowledge.
And I need them to trust me.
So let's hope they're in the mood to drink.
-------
[Two Days Later - The Hill]
They saw the smoke first.
Rising from behind a rocky hill.
Then, as they crested the ridge, they saw the camp.
Dozens of dwarves.
Stocky figures with long beards, sitting around a campfire.
They noticed Arden's approach immediately.
But didn't acknowledge it.
Didn't turn their heads.
Didn't speak.
They just sat there, smoking pipes, pretending to ignore the wagons full of kegs.
But Arden could see the truth.
Their ears were pricked.
They heard the sloshing of alcohol in the barrels.
And they were interested.
"Everyone stay here," Arden said quietly. "Let me approach first."
He dismounted, grabbing a keg from one of the wagons.
Hoisted it onto his shoulder.
And walked directly into the camp.
The dwarves watched him approach with studied indifference.
But their eyes tracked the keg.
Arden walked straight to the campfire.
And sat down.
Right in the middle of the dwarven circle.
As if he belonged there.
The dwarves turned to look at him.
One in particular—older, with a beard that reached his belt—stared with sharp eyes.
"Ye be lost, human?" His voice was gruff. Skeptical.
"No," Arden said simply.
He set the keg down.
Uncorked it.
The scent of strong alcohol filled the air immediately.
Several dwarves involuntarily cleared their throats.
Arden smiled.
"I'm Arden Valekrest. Heir to the Valekrest Dukedom. Pleasure to meet you."
He pulled out a tankard.
Filled it from the keg.
"I've come to honor old friendships."
He raised the tankard.
"Let's empty one keg first."
Silence.
The dwarves stared at him.
Then, slowly, the old dwarf with the long beard smiled.
"Ye know our ways, human?"
"I know that dwarves don't trust gifts. They trust friends. And you don't make friends by talking—you make them by drinking."
The old dwarf laughed.
A deep, rumbling sound.
"Aye. That we do."
He pulled out his own tankard.
"I be Thorin Ironbeard, Craftmaster of the Stone Council."
He gestured to the other dwarves.
"These be my kinsmen. And ye be the first human in sixty years to approach us proper."
He raised his tankard.
"So let's drink, Arden Valekrest. And see if ye can keep up with dwarves."