Episode 6. The Dwarf and the Workshop
“Waaahhh… sniff, waaahhh…”
No, fuck. This old man, who was old enough to worry about dying of old age, was bawling like a newborn baby.
It happened not long after I forced the potion down his throat. They said there was a high chance it would improve his mood, like some kind of drug, but Horn's mood didn't just tank—it straight-up exploded into a gut-wrenching mess.
No matter how much I apologized and asked if he was okay, he was too busy sobbing his heart out. Left with no choice, I left Horn be and turned to Aberly.
“You crazy bastard, you said there was a certain probability.”
“Th-that… I didn't say what the percentage was, did I…?”
“What percentage?”
Aberly was flustered too, rummaging through his bag for an antidote. If he called it a “certain probability,” it probably hovered around 20% at worst, so we just got ridiculously unlucky.
“Still, I stabilized it a lot, so the chance of it making him more depressed was only about 45%…”
That was before Aberly glanced at me nervously and mumbled his answer.
This guy was actually insane.
“…Have you ever seen a more outrageously fraudulent probability scammer?”
Who the hell casually calls nearly 50-50 odds a “certain probability”? And it actually worked as intended, so no placebo bullshit to fall back on.
As I stared at him in disbelief, he kept making excuses.
“Th-that's why I said it was an under-tested potion… I was just messing around to cheer Horn up, I never meant for anyone to actually take it…”
No.
“…Is that what it was?”
“Y-yes… Plus, it was made for regulating gray emotions, so I don't even know how it'd affect a normal person…”
So Aberly had just been clowning around to lift Horn's spirits, and my impatient ass went and shoved the potion down Horn's throat. I thought he was just being his usual Aberly self, as always.
And so.
“Waaahhh… sniff, sob, waaahhh…”
Aberly busied himself inspecting potion vials for a neutralizer, I rubbed my forehead with a deep sigh, and Horn's pitiful wails kept echoing.
The kids had peeked through the door crack but quietly shut it and retreated inside. Asha tilted her head like it was amusing, took a sip of tea, and just watched me.
It was enough to drive anyone mad.
Horn finally calmed down not long after.
“Haa… there, that's enough. Quit fussing in front of me and both of you sit down.”
“What, you good now? Shouldn't you cry a bit more?”
While we flailed around, he'd grabbed some tissues, pressed them hard against his eyes, and beckoned us over with a flick of his hand.
“…Aside from feeling like I'd die of embarrassment, bawling like a damn kid somehow settled my heart. Feels good… or maybe I dunno.”
Now that he mentioned it, his expression looked pretty decent—puffy eyes aside. No dead-fish stare, no drooping mouth corners. Just like a normal person's.
I vaguely recalled hearing that crying your eyes out when you're down could calm your emotions and make you feel better.
So maybe it wasn't instant mood-boosting after all—making him more depressed and letting the tears flow was the real win.
Whatever the case.
“Ooh… so your potion worked after all, Aberly? Sorry, shouldn't have snapped.”
“Ooh… that means the potion I made was a perfect 100% success with zero failure rate…!”
I played along with some bullshit flattery to spare Horn's pride, and Aberly jumped on it, grinning ear to ear.
“…Never seen such punk-ass shits.”
“Crybaby geezer.”
“Dwarf defeated by a p-potion.”
“Drink some yourselves, you little bastards.”
Aberly and I kept ribbing Horn, who was covering his face with tissues in utter mortification from his endless sobbing. It livened up the dorm's gloomy underground vibe again.
And then.
“Might as well spill it all now. Feels better to get it off my chest.”
Horn spoke first, calling all his comrades to the living room.
The three kids, who'd snuck the door shut, came toddling back to claim his lap and seats beside him. Asha, sipping her tea, smiled faintly and settled next to me.
Horn swept his gaze over us and began.
“Horn Fortis Nickroom Petram… that's my name. Or was.”
Even after all that bawling, his voice cracked with distant sorrow as he recalled the past.
“Didn't wanna talk about it, but I wasn't hiding my name either. 'Fortis' is for chiefs only, and 'Nickroom Petram' means Black Rock Clan. Now that I'm no chief with no clan left, plain old Horn fits.”
Dwarf stuff we knew nothing about—totally alien to us.
“My clan… the Black Rock Clan was wiped out over 200 years ago. I'm the only one left. Demon invasion caught us off guard; everyone buried underground died.”
“…Ah.”
“Just when a few of us, including me, stepped out for talks with other clans.”
The world might be peaceful now, but back then demon raids were common.
“Woke up one day and my whole family—everyone but the few who came with me—was buried in the mountain. Felt so damn empty. They hadn't done a thing wrong, just living happily.”
Horn closed his eyes like the nightmare was resurfacing and let out a heavy sigh.
Then, out of nowhere, he changed tack.
“Oh, any of you know why dwarf territory's so closed-off? The workshop scene's changed a lot, but they're still standoffish.”
“No clue.”
Why dwarves were isolationist and clannish? Never looked into it. Humans like me couldn't even get in easily.
“Figured. It's 'cause they love their race and clan too damn much. Dwarves adore their own kind so fiercely they keep other races at arm's length. That's why no half-dwarves, unlike half-elves or beastkin.”
“No wonder you spit human-hating crap so often.”
“Shut your trap, human scum.”
Come to think of it, I'd seen half-elves and half-beastkin around, but never a half-dwarf.
Anyway.
“So why bring that up outta nowhere?”
“To explain why I'm the only one left, even though a few survived with me at first.”
Horn the elder explained.
“The few who followed me couldn't handle the sight. Offed themselves soon after. Couldn't bear losing their entire families. So I ended up alone.”
After that random detour, he picked up his own tale again.
He'd been hoarding his story tight, but once he started spilling, it poured out nonstop. Started grim, but by the end he was cracking jokes naturally.
“So what's with your shitty blacksmith skills now?”
“Nearly 200 years without touching a hammer, you ill-mannered punk. And I aged another 200 in the meantime.”
“A clan's top smith who held the chief seat for centuries, down to this?”
No way a legendary dwarf smith representing his era drops to average after 200 years off and picking it back up.
Hmm. No idea.
I shrugged and teased him; he glared with his puffy eyes and yelled.
“Hey, you brat! Think you could pick up a sword after 30 years off and swing it like a pro?”
“If I were a Sword Saint, yeah—even after 30 years, I'd whirl it around fancy the second I grabbed it.”
“Whatever. I only picked up the hammer again about five years ago in Crepen when you showed up!”
“Five years should be enough to get your groove back, though. Hmm.”
“Argh, I'm done talking, you whippersnapper.”
Keep poking, and he whipped his long beard around, shut his eyes, and sulked.
Bawling like a kid one minute, then pouting like one the next. Lately, he was a real mixed bag.
“Geezer.”
“Scram.”
He'd started out so serious and dignified, those deep eyes full of gravitas. A true dwarf elder.