#gnicea? come on

[inbabylontheywept]

Dale of the Dales: Part 1

The Dales were home to the hillfolk, a happy people, but also the only group shorter than the gnomes. Commander Alfonse Sprocket had been prepared to discuss the surrender of Honnillee with someone quite a bit… shorter.

“Welcome, welcome, how do you do? I’m Dale Chesher, named after these self-same lands, yessiree. Something to drink?”

The situation was so surreal that he didn’t fight against the warm mug of tan liquid forced into his hand. He took a sip and winced: The tea was far too sweet, syrupy even.

Alfonse hadn’t actually met a human before this moment. Apparently, they didn’t take to the altitude of Gnicaea very well. Most of the trade the two cultures experienced came second hand from the dwarves, who were friendly enough, but prone to exaggeration. When he’d heard the dwarves talking about the scale of a human, he’d written it off as a cultural tendency to lionize their friends.

Apparently, he had failed to give his fellow mountain-folk appropriate credit. The man in front of him was easily twice his height, and thrice his breadth.

“You’re the mayor of this town?”

Dale shrugged.

“We got maybe a hundred folk down here in Honnillee, we ain’t nearly so formal as that. If someone needs to be in charge for a spell, we let em’, but it ain’t a lifelong deal. Titles go to yer head like cheese goes to yer thighs, that’s a Chesherism, free-a-charge.”

He swept a hand towards the dining room, cutting off the Commander from further interrogations.

“If you got any more questions, it’d be easier to ask them sittin’ down. If the Gods wanted me to spend my life standin’, they wouldn’t have given me such a soft ass, that’s a second Chesherism for ya. Our folk don’t dine much together, more’s the pity, so we’ve got two options so far as the table’s concerned: We got a booster chair you could use to sit at my very own personal dining set, carried all the way from the Malantai, or I could sit criss-cross-applesauce here at a table that the Midford’s lend me for the evenin’, bless their teenie-tiny hearts hearts. You’re the guest; choice is yours. ”

The avalanche of words was hard to keep up with. Worse, the man didn’t even seem to be doing it on purpose: His face was placid, almost serene, and his every movement had a sort of lazy-summer-sluggishness to it.

He could do this all night. Alfonse, on the other hand, could feel his strength draining with every moment he wore his ceremonial armor. He was supposed to come here armed to the teeth, plated in silver, an angel of war in a land of peace. He was supposed to be terrifying.

Craning his head almost forty-five degrees up just to make eye contact did not make him feel very terrifying.

Less than thrilled by the prospect of craning his neck the whole night, he weighed his options: He could accept the use of the booster seat, which would put him at eye level, although he wasn’t sure how he would manage to get up there. Perhaps a ladder would be produced? Or, if none were sturdy enough to handle him in full armor, perhaps a ramp?

Alternatively, he could use the standard size table, which would leave him with an aching neck to match everything else.

Easy choice.

“I would like to use your dining set, Master Chesher. The craftsmanship is remarka-”

He was cut off mid-sentence as Dale casually scooped him up, crossing the entire room in three easy strides before dropping him casually into the chair. The indignity of it was almost as infuriating as the casual display of strength was intimidating.

Almost.

Fear held his temper in, but it did little to curb other emotions. His mouth was desperate to say something about what had just happened, and the odd lingering smells in the upholstery of the seat gave it an outlet.

“I...Why does my chair reek of boiled peas?”

Dale shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

“Ah, well, normally this here seat is used by babs still sprouting their fangs. Boiled peas and carrots are delicacies for em’, but you know how it is when you’re feeding a ween, they wind up wearing as much as they eat! And they eat a good deal sir, a very good deal, humans don’t get this big by being dainty-like. Been a long time since I’ve had any runnin’ around the house though. Miss my little scamps.”

Ah. So this was a child’s chair. He hadn’t counted on that. He deflated in his chair before forcing himself up right again, consoling himself.

Ah hell, it wasn’t like the shock and awe had been working well anyway.

“I see. Well, Master Chesher, are you ready to discuss the details of your hamlet’s surrender?”

Dale winced.

“My boy, I done told you: I ain’t a mayor and Honnillee ain’t mine. It ain’t anyone’s. Only people with any claim to the ground near here at them that’s buried underneath it, there’s a third Chesherism for ya.”

“I am not a ‘boy’, and we’ve heard this claim from the hill-folk before. All that you’ve said is both well known, and highly contrary to how Gnicaea sees things. This document isn’t going to write itself Master Chesher, so if you would quit stalling and-”

Dale exploded up, his chair miraculously keeping its balance even as it slid across the room and slammed into the wall.

“It’s called hospitality, Alfonse, and you may not get our ways but under this roof you sure as sin are gonna respect em’! Now this is how our evenin’ is gonna go: We’re gonna eat our vittles like civilized-folk cuz I’m an old godsdamned widower and I baked you a shepard’s pie with the late wife’s recipe, first time I done touched an oven in ten years, and I cried into it thinkin’ about her, so you owe me big for that, you hear? Then, we’re gonna have two drinks apiece out on the porch because it is a nice summer evenin’ and a man can be too sober for a thing just as easily as he can be too drunk, and you sir strike me as a man that’s been two drinks too sober since he was born. We get those done, evenin’s yours. And if you even think about talkin’ any more business before those’re done, I swear, I swear, I’m gonna hang your shiny metal ass off that chandelier over there and leave you there until the sun doth rise or my house doth burn, whichever comes first. Are we clear?”

Alfonse blinked once, twice, three times. He’d been in the military a long time, climbed his way from boot camp all the way to the top. He’d been happy enough when he reached a rank where he didn’t get reamed on the daily, but it’d been so long that he’d dealt with anything besides excessive ass-kissing that he didn’t know what to do. To be honest, it was actually pretty damn refreshing.

He realized that Dale was still waiting for him to speak.

“Crystal clear, Dale. Just got one question for you.”

The human glared at him, suspicious as he’d ever been.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Does it get any easier?”

Dale’s face twisted up in confusion.

“Does what get any easier? Bein’ an old grump? Every damn day.”

Alfonse scratched the back of his head. Yeah, that hadn’t been a very clear question.

“No. Being a widower.”

There was a pause as Dale searched his face for any sign of lying, even a hint of manipulation.

He couldn’t find any, and the suspicion gave way into a begrudging sympathy.

“Ah. No. You just get stronger. Gimme a moment, this’ll be easier to talk about while eatin’ pie.”

Alfonse nodded, watching as the giant left. He was surprised at how empty the room felt without him. They’d barely been talking for two minutes, and he already felt closer to this stranger than he’d felt with anyone back home in years.

He had a moment to think back on how the dwarves described humans, beyond just their height, and couldn’t help but marvel at the accuracy. To think that this was the one thing you could trust a dwarf to be honest about. What was the phrase that he’d heard at the tavern, all those years ago...

Humans bond with strangers like they’re friends, friends like they're family, and family more than life.

He wondered where he stood on that list. It'd been a while since he'd had a friend.

#fantasy #creative writing #writing #gnomes #the gnome puns in this get pretty egregious #gnicea? come on #and at some point I reference gnobles #humanity fuck yeah #humans are space orcs #except somethings they're just ground orcs #hfy