Bathilda's relationship with council meetings could be best described as a simmering pot of irritation, perpetually threatening to boil over. Three times she'd subjected herself to the droning voices and self-important pronouncements, and each time she'd emerged feeling like she'd wrestled a particularly stubborn badger – exhausted and thoroughly disgruntled. The sheer inefficiency of it all! Back on Earth, a strongly worded email could achieve more in five minutes than these pompous gatherings managed in hours.

  Thank the stars for Blossom. Her automaton companion possessed a diplomatic finesse that Bathilda could only dream of. While Bathilda's default setting around authority figures leaned towards thinly veiled sarcasm, Blossom glided through negotiations with the grace of a swan and the persuasive charm of a particularly adorable, yet firm, fluffy cloud. It was a talent so remarkable that Bathilda, in a moment of utter relief and admiration, had mentally dubbed her "Chief Ambassador to the Land of Grumpy Beards" – officially, of course, it was just Durok.

  Home, with its endless bureaucracy and penchant for pointless protocol, could frankly sod off. Bathilda's patience for diplomats and council members had eroded faster than a sandstone cliff in a hurricane. If anyone from that dusty little city dared to seek her assistance now, they'd have to navigate the Blossom-shaped obstacle first. Consider it a new, fluffy layer of security.

  As the council meeting droned on, a symphony of coughs, throat clearings, and the occasional emphatic table thump echoing through the cavernous hall, Bathilda seized the opportunity for a strategic retreat. Durok. A city carved into the very heart of a mountain. The sheer audacity of it stole her breath. On Earth, the closest she'd gotten to subterranean architecture was a slightly damp basement. Here, it was an entire civilization, a labyrinth of intricately carved tunnels and grand halls, all smelling faintly of damp stone and, overwhelmingly, ale. It was a sight that postcards simply couldn't capture, a testament to dwarven ingenuity and, presumably, an impressive tolerance for low ceilings.

  The lure of exploration proved too strong to resist. Bathilda found herself wandering through the bustling thoroughfares, marveling at the craftsmanship etched into every surface. Dwarves, sturdy and bearded in varying shades of brown, grey, and surprisingly vibrant ginger, bustled about their business. The rhythmic clang of hammers from unseen workshops mingled with the boisterous chatter of bartering merchants. It was a vibrant, if slightly claustrophobic, world.

  Before long, drawn by an invisible gravitational pull, Bathilda found herself standing before the welcomingly raucous entrance of a tavern. The air within was thick with the aroma of roasted meat, something vaguely earthy, and, yes, copious amounts of ale. And there, perched on a stool, nursing a tankard the size of a small dog, was Gunnar.

  "Hey, Gunnar," Bathilda greeted him, the name resurfacing from the depths of her slightly overwhelmed brain. He offered a curt nod, his attention firmly fixed on his beverage. The tavern was a hive of jovial activity, a symphony of hearty laughter and the clinking of tankards. Clearly, the dwarven concept of "downtime" involved copious amounts of fermented barley. Or perhaps, Bathilda mused, this was their work. Maintaining peak merriment probably required dedication. Living inside a mountain couldn't have been a picnic to begin with. They must have some impressive internal clocks, she pondered, given the distinct lack of sunlight.

  "What are you drinking?" she inquired, gesturing vaguely at his tankard. She was met with a dramatic eye roll that could have won an Olympic medal for its sheer expressiveness. The welcoming grin he'd sported upon their arrival had vanished, replaced by an expression that suggested she'd just insulted his mother's beard-trimming skills.

  "Have I done something to offend you?" Bathilda couldn't help but ask, a flicker of concern sparking within her. Blossom was currently charming the socks off potentially crucial allies, and the last thing Bathilda wanted was to inadvertently trigger an inter-species incident over a misplaced word or a culturally insensitive eyebrow raise. Best to nip this in the bud.

  "You've got no drink, Missy," Gunnar slurred slightly, the 's' in 'Missy' sounding suspiciously like a prolonged hiss. "Here we are, in Turin's Tavern! One of, if not the best, drinking establishment in all a Durok, and you ain't got nothin' to wet ya whistle. Bah!" He punctuated his statement with a dismissive wave of his hand, nearly knocking over his substantial tankard. It was good to know she hadn't committed a social faux pas, merely offended his deeply ingrained sense of tavern etiquette. Apparently, entering a drinking establishment without immediately partaking was akin to attending a tea party and refusing a scone. Unthinkable.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  "Alright then," Bathilda conceded, raising her hands in mock surrender. "I'll have what he's having," she told the barkeep, a formidable dwarven woman whose fiery red hair was matched only by the impressive, well-maintained beard that cascaded down her chest. Bathilda wisely refrained from comment. Her own experience with facial hair was limited to the occasional rogue chin hair, and she knew better than to wade into inter-species beard comparisons without a comprehensive cultural briefing.

  "Ha!" Gunnar, however, seemed to operate on a different set of social rules. He bellowed a laugh directly in her face, a spray of ale droplets accompanying the sound. "You can't handle this one, Missy! It's not for the faint of liver," he chuckled, clearly relishing the prospect of her potential discomfort.

  The bartender, unfazed by Gunnar's pronouncements, simply placed a hefty wooden tankard in front of Bathilda. It felt reassuringly solid in her hand. She then extended a calloused hand, palm up, and requested payment. Bathilda's smile faltered. It had been… a while since she'd actually paid for anything. The concept of currency had become somewhat abstract in her new reality. She patted her pockets, finding them conspicuously empty.

  "We'll see about that," she said, regaining her composure. "But first, what do people use as currency in Durok?" Gunnar blinked, momentarily taken aback by the seemingly random question. He fumbled in a pouch at his belt and produced a small, intricately stamped piece of copper. "Coppers, silvers, and golds," he explained, holding it out for her inspection. He'd personally escorted her into the city; he knew she was an outsider, blissfully ignorant of their economic system.

  That was all the information Bathilda needed. With a subtle flex of her fingers beneath the table, she utilized [Creation], a faint shimmer of energy briefly dancing around her hand. A small, perfectly formed copper coin, identical to the one Gunnar had shown her, materialized in her palm. It felt strangely like cheating, this effortless conjuring of wealth. The knowledge that she could, theoretically, create an endless supply of currency had a certain seductive appeal. No more tedious work, no more worrying about bills. But the thought left a slightly sour taste in her mouth. That wasn't who she was. If it were, she'd probably be lounging in some celestial spa right now, sipping ambrosia and listening to Florence's latest grandiose pronouncements. Tossers, indeed.

  "Don't say I didn't warn ya," Gunnar chuckled, oblivious to her internal ethical debate, and drained his tankard before signaling the barkeep for another.

  Bathilda took a tentative sip of the ale. Her expectations, heavily influenced by Gunnar's dire warnings, were low. Surprisingly, it didn't taste like fermented badger. In fact, it was rather pleasant. Not quite the exquisite vintage reds she used to savor in the evenings back in her conservatory, but a surprisingly fruity concoction that seemed to gently nudge the edges of her wariness away. It was baffling. Where on earth – or rather, under it – did they get fruit? They lived inside a mountain, for crying out loud! Unless… perhaps the monsters she'd heard about had a penchant for exotic fruit cultivation before the resident Vampire had, shall we say, reorganized their priorities.

  She finished the rest of her drink with a satisfied sigh and flashed Gunnar a genuine smile before ordering a second. The dwarven guide's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise for a fleeting moment before he brushed it off with a hearty laugh.

  "Looks like Vampires don't mess around when it comes to drinking," he declared, downing his own refill with impressive speed.

  "I was a pro drinker long before I became a Vampire," Bathilda retorted, a wry smile playing on her lips. "The wine I used to get from Vincent's was just…" The rest of the sentence died in her throat as realization dawned. She'd never actually told Gunnar she was a vampire. Yet, he knew. And not only did he know, but he'd willingly escorted a known Vampire and her suspiciously intelligent automaton into his city.

  "Gunnar," she began, a little lost for words.

  "Don't worry yer pretty little socks off, Missy," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Ol' Gunnar here might not have as many fancy tricks as the young 'uns, but I've had [Identify] since I was a lad. Coupled with a touch of [Detect Malice], I can tell you're not a threat. Nor yer pet nursing bear."

  Bathilda mentally pictured Blossom, floating serenely in her pristine white scrubs. The [Clone/Parallel Mind] was undeniably adorable, a fluffy cloud of focused medical assistance. Bathilda knew her like she knew herself – because, in a very real sense, she was.

  "O… Kay?" Bathilda replied, still slightly bewildered. She downed her second drink, the fruity ale continuing its soothing work, and then, feeling a sudden surge of camaraderie, she ordered another round for everyone in the tavern.

  The reaction was immediate and enthusiastic. A loud cheer erupted, punctuated by multiple whistles and a lone, particularly enthusiastic "Whoop!" Gunnar banged his empty tankard on the table with gusto, rallying the other dwarves who, with equally impressive speed, had also managed to empty their vessels. They were clearly ready for their free refills.

  Dwarves are kinda cool, Bathilda mused, a genuine smile gracing her lips. Maybe council meetings weren't so bad if they led to unexpected tavern visits and free ale. Though, she still maintained her right to find them incredibly tedious. Blossom could handle the talking. Bathilda was on important cultural exchange duties. With a tankard in hand.