"Some live. Others fight. He snores."
The world began with a thud. Not thunder. Not divine revelation. Just an empty bottle bouncing off his forehead.
The dwarf opened one eye. Then the other. Regretting he had two.
The headache arrived like a late bill. Throbbing with interest and emotional penalties.
He stared at the fallen bottle. Thought, "If this is a sign, the universe needs therapy." Then thought, "I need a drink. Urgently."
He stood up with the enthusiasm of a wet stone. The barrel was there. Loyal. Heavy. More reliable than any god he'd ever heard of — and he'd heard of some truly awful ones.
He slung the barrel onto his back. Walked down the street like a man carrying his own epitaph.
The city didn't help. Smelled of mold, sweat, and stale bread. Too many people for too little hope.
He reached the Serpent's Eye tavern. The door crooked. The sign hanging by a suicidal nail. And Thalga, the owner, with the face of someone who'd given up on everything — except complaining.
"Barrel again, dwarf?" she muttered, not even pretending to be surprised.
He replied with a grunt. Something between "yes," "no," and "get used to it."
He sat in his usual corner. Dark. Damp. Smelling of bad decisions.
He slammed his mug on the table. Thalga poured without looking. First sip: an insult to sobriety. Second: an apology to memory. Third: an attempt to erase the first two.
He thought, "Alcohol doesn't judge. Doesn't demand. Doesn't promise. It just delivers. More than any god I've ever met."
Outside, Kael and Tharon passed by. The one with the torn cloak and the talking sword. Always running. Always trying.
The dwarf looked. Not with interest. Just with the eyes of someone who's seen too much and doesn't want to see more.
He drank again. Snoring followed soon after. Barrel in his arms. Cycle restarted.
Night fell like someone tripping. No grace. No warning. Just fell.
The dwarf left the tavern dragging the barrel like an inconvenient relative. The street was quiet. Suspiciously quiet. The kind that comes before a lovers' quarrel or an orc invasion.
The alley awaited him. Same as always. Smelling of urine, moldy bread, and broken promises. The perfect home for someone who no longer believes in home.
He settled between two smaller barrels — false friends. The real barrel was in his arms. Almost a hug. Almost.
Before closing his eyes, he saw something.
A man. Torn cloak. Sword in hand. Talking to it.
Not yelling. Talking. Like he expected an answer.
The dwarf frowned. Or tried to. His forehead was busy with a hangover.
He thought, "Either I drank too much… or he drank too little."
The sword replied. With a voice. With opinions.
The dwarf chuckled. Quietly. Alone. Like someone realizing the world's even crazier than he is.
"Talking to metal…" he murmured. "And here I thought my barrel was chatty."
He chose to ignore it. Like he ignores anything that requires effort.
He turned to the side. Barrel in his arms. Eyes half-open. Just in case.
The city slept. But he didn't trust it.
The sun rose reluctantly. Weak light, hangover-colored. The kind of day that starts by apologizing.
The dwarf was in the alley. Barrel in his arms. Posture of someone asleep. But he wasn't.
Or rather: he slept with one eye. The other peeked through half-lidded suspicion. Always suspicious.
Footsteps. Two pairs. Hesitant rhythm. People unsure if they're arriving or escaping.
Kael and Tharon. The one with the torn cloak and the talking sword. Again.
The dwarf thought, "Those two have a knack for trouble. And trouble has a knack for stealing barrels."
He faked a snore. Faked drool. Faked peace.
But he was ready. Ready in the laziest sense of the word.
The bottle was nudged. Gently. Like someone testing the ground.
He stirred. Just enough to look like he might wake. Just enough to make them back off.
Kael stepped back. Tharon muttered something. The sword replied with sarcasm.
The dwarf didn't move again. He just thought:
"Barrels are sacred. And sacred things aren't shared with strangers."
The sun climbed. The city began to wake. But he stayed there. Between sleep and alertness. Between the barrel and the world.
Late afternoon. Orange light, the color of old beer. The alley felt quieter than usual. And usual was already too quiet.
The dwarf was there. As always. Barrel in his arms. Posture of a forgotten statue.
The air shifted. Not much. Just enough to be annoying.
A shiver. Not from cold. From something wrong.
He opened one eye. Then the other. Regretting it, as always.
He looked around. Nothing. Just the alley. Just the silence.
But the silence was pretending. And he knew how to spot a fake — he was an expert.
At the far end of the street, two figures moved away. Kael and Tharon. The one with the torn cloak and the chatty sword.
They walked fast. Like they were fleeing. Or following something they shouldn't.
The dwarf watched. Not with curiosity. With the eyes of someone who's seen the end of the world and found it boring.
He thought, "Something's wrong. But too wrong for me to get involved."
He closed his eyes. Barrel in his arms. As always.
The world could end. But he'd sleep first.
Night fell again. Quicker this time. Like it was clocking out early.
The dwarf was in the alley. Barrel in his arms. Eyes half-open. Heart shut.
Screams. Not many. Just enough to be annoying.
He looked. Kael and Tharon. The one with the torn cloak and the talking sword.
Cornered. By people who don't talk. By people who don't hesitate.
The fight was quick. More collapse than combat. More ending than beginning.
The dwarf watched. Didn't stand. Didn't get involved.
He thought, "Should I do something?"
Silence.
Then he thought, "They tried to steal my barrel. Or looked like they did. Or maybe I just imagined it. But that's reason enough."
Another scream. Closer.
He turned his head. Like changing the channel.
Thought:
"Mess with drunks and thieves, wake up without teeth."
He took a sip. Long. Ceremonial.
Kael fell. Tharon — the sword — screamed. Or maybe just hissed.
The dwarf turned his back. Barrel in his arms. Conscience intact. Or too drunk to care.
The alley went quiet again. Kael and Tharon vanished. The street swallowed the sounds, like it does with everything it doesn't want to remember.
The dwarf stayed. Barrel in his arms. Thinking of nothing. Or maybe everything, but too lazy to sort it out.
Sleep came. Not as escape. As routine.
And with it, the dream.
He dreamed of a tavern. Of strange voices. Of a slime that spoke in verse. Of a blindfolded woman tripping over chairs. Of a ninja who seemed to know everything and nothing at once.
He woke. Or thought he did.
He was in the tavern. Serpent's Eye. In his usual corner. Barrel in his arms.
Maybe he walked there. Maybe he was carried. Maybe the world just skipped a chapter.
He didn't ask. He just drank.
The door burst open. Not with wind. With urgency.
A hooded ninja burst in. Eyes wide. Breath short. Posture of someone who'd lost something — or someone.
He scanned the room. Like trying to find meaning in a beer menu.
Behind him, a blindfolded healer tried to enter. Missed the doorway. Smacked her face against the wood.
"Ow," she said, with wounded dignity.
Right behind her, a slime. Yes, a slime. Gelatinous. Blue. Poetic.
It recited, in a liquid voice:
"I seek my fate — Among mugs and blood — Where are you now?"
Silence. Thalga stopped wiping. The ninja stopped searching. The healer stopped bleeding. The slime… kept being a slime.
The dwarf opened one eye. Then the other. Sighed.
He thought:
"I think I need to stop drinking…"
Then thought:
"Or drink more. Maybe that'll help."
He took a sip. Long. Final.
Barrel in his arms. World collapsing. And him, as always, in the corner.