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Book 2: Chapter 44: Interlude: Competitors, Assemble!

Master Topaz Caskitt struck a pose and pulled seductively at her green beard while she thought. She appreciated the hungry look the apprentices gave her as she did so. She cultivated her image nearly as much as her beer. She was quite proud of her looks, and this recent fad for dyed hair and frilly clothes like Raspberrysyrup annoyed her nearly as much as that cad Pete Goldstone, or Roughtuff or whatever he was calling himself this year.

“Well, apprentice. We will do what we always do. Brew tha best Sacred Brew that has ever been brewed!”

She surveyed her brewfloor. Unlike most of the other breweries, hers was neither a warehouse like the Goldstones, nor underground like Cimon or Stonetusks’. No, the Caskitt brewery was open to the air, with tall walls and an enchanted barrier of light to keep out prying eyes. While others were afraid of various pests getting into their brew, such as bats or the horrid ubiquitous cats, the Caskitt family knew that they were simply part of the natural ambiance of Crack.

That was why their beer had regularly been the best selling in the guild store. Their brew truly captured the TASTE of Minnova. And that was why they were going to win this contest. Caskitt Brewery would use the same ethos it had used since its inception, only now it would capture the essence of what it meant to be a dwarf.

Caskitt strutted over to the latest brew and stirred the foaming Ancestral Seed with a ladle. It was one among dozens of vats held between the tall walls. Their brews admittedly had a high number of bad batches, and they needed many more tanks than the other breweries to meet demand. But it was worth it to ensure they were number one for taste.

Those bad batches were the only thing keeping The Full Cask from becoming the biggest brewery in Minnova, and she had been chosen amongst all her siblings to take over the brewery thanks to her work in reducing them. It had been laughably simple; a reduction in the pitch rate of Ancestral Seed, coupled with a full-time [Aethershaper] whose job it was to constantly cycle the air. She wasn’t quite sure exactly what he did, but it was working! They’d reduced the number of bad batches to 40%.

With the capital to work with, she would be able to bring the Caskitt brewing method to capture the tastes of first Kinshasa, and then the world!

She turned to the apprentice. “Tell everyone to strip down to loincloths the next few weeks, and raise the temperature a smidge. And let’s all work up a sweat while we stir.”

Work and a show!

—

“Bah!”

Master Cimon groaned as he read over the rules to the competition. The light of his candle guttered as a breeze flowed down the dark tunnels of Drunken Duck Brewery. He was getting far too old for this! Why couldn’t the contest have been something simple, like, ‘brew the best brew you’ve ever brewed’! He needed to retire, but all of his apprentices were still too flighty. He simply didn’t trust any of them to give the Sacred Brew the respect it deserved.

Thankfully he had some sextacentagenarians that were showing some promise. Just a few more decades and they‘d be ready to do their duty.

“Is the next batch of Light Brew ready?” He asked the grey robed journeyman standing at attention beside him.

“Yes sir.”

“By the Unholy Yams of Yearn, the Gods must be laughing at us. There isn’t enough time for us to brew something new. We’ll need to use that batch.”

The journeyman looked like he was about to speak, then snapped his mouth shut.

Good! This one could be taught. There was no need for a youngster to waggle their moustache when a greybeard was around to administer proper thinking.

Cimon groaned as his joints popped, and he shuffled his black armour into a more comfortable position. Then he took a short walk to the nearest minecart, and climbed inside. A few minutes later he was down in the bowels of The Duck, where the temperature was low enough for the proper creation of Light Brew.

Exactly twenty-four tanks of Light Brew fermented merrily, their Ancestral Seed popping and bubbling. Shivering apprentices busily cleared the troughs from the upstairs brew kettle, while another grey-robed journeyman ordered them about.

He had a rough guess of what the other Brewers were going to do. Caskitt would hold true to her traditional techniques, same with Icewhite and Fault. He had little doubt that The Duck would prevail over them, as Light Brew was currently in vogue amongst the nobility. No doubt the judges would be some of the most illustrious dwarves from the capital. Perhaps they might even take notice of his experience and grey hairs and bring him back with them to receive his own lesser title of nobility. He preened his moustache at the thought.

The problem was going to be the youngsters, such as Goldstone, Drum, and Rudd. He was dreading what abominations they would come up with in a vain attempt at glory.

Bah.

—

“So, what are ya thinkin’, son?”

Samuel Rudd paced back and forth in his office, occasionally staring out onto the brewroom floor where his workers were busy cleaning. His father, the now retired Ryan Rudd, waited for an answer as his son paced a trough into the stone.

Cleaning. Like common labourers. Yet, from his conversations with Master Stonetusk, it had resulted in a drop of bad batches by nearly half in Stonetusk Brewery. It was one of the innovations to brewing techniques presented by Annie Goldstone.

One of several, but the only one Stonetusk had been willing to try at first.

The letter that Rudd had been reading sat upon the beer table. So small and unassuming, and yet such a danger. It represented change. A massive shift of tectonic proportions if this was merely the first round.

Instead of answering, Rudd turned to his father and asked a question. “What did the alchemist say?”

“He said that we do have some iron in the water, along with extra calcium. Thinks there may be a deposit in our section of the cistern.”

“You paid him extra ta keep it quiet?”

“Aye. Good thing ya got all that gold, eh!”

Things had been tight recently. Customers were loving the new bottles and Rudd Brewery had been too small to easily make the switch. They were losing customers...

Rudd considered Brewer Peter Roughtuff. His conversation with the dwarf had not been at all what he’d expected. Peter was clearly knowledgeable, and affable. Not at all the raving lunatic he’d expected from Browning’s descriptions of him.

And this gnomish brew offered a path to success. There was NO WAY the bigger breweries would even consider brewing it. That left Ruddy Bloodbrews an edge.

But only if he was willing to throw away millenia of tradition.

“Father, I - “

His father interrupted, his face as calm and collected as ever. Rudd had always envied his father’s quiet surety. “Ya’know me boy? If there is one thing that’s defined us Rudds fer generations, it’s that we aren’t afraid to jump right into the thick of things. Tha drink of choice of [Berserkers], and tha first to the fray. That’s us!” The senior Rudd pounded his black master-brewer’s armour proudly, the very image of a warrior. An onion bounced out of his pocket and the image was broken as he scampered after it, swearing.

Rudd mulled over his father’s words.

Yes. A Rudd never faltered in the face of battle. There was a possibility to raise his clan to new heights here, and he had an idea. There was one thing that truly defined dwarves. One thing that every child had to struggle with from the moment they took their first hitball to the face. And his brewery was uniquely qualified to capitalize on that.

So he was going to do the unthinkable: change the Rudd recipe.

His ancestors would forgive him. After all, they may have even been himself.

—

Drum used his silver hand to roll the rules up into a cigar. He stuffed it with some fine pipe-weed and flicked his fingers to create a spark.

He took a drag from the freshly made cigar and blew smoke into the face of the white-armoured [Courier] that had delivered it.

“Go tell whoever sent ya, that they can stuff these rules up - “

The [Courier] fled.

Drum watched him go with disdain. Damn nobles and their games. He had half a mind to drop out and go join Sam. His old friend was shacked up outside the city keeping an eye on the nobility making their way into Minnova. Traffic had increased tenfold with the Octamillenial contests, and both he and Sam didn\'t trust them as far as they could toss them. And he had an enchanted arm and years of experiencing tossing patrons.

He caressed his silver arm with the habit of old pain and anger. They wanted to play games? FINE.

He would give them a show they’d never forget!

“*Har, har, har!*”

—

Master Fault glanced over the letter and shrugged.

“We’ll just brew as usual.” She said in her quavery voice.

“Are you sure, great-grandmother?” The brown-robed dwarfess beside her asked.

The white-haired dwarfess smiled at her little apprentice. “Our brews are perfect. Why worry?”

Her other family-members-cum-employees gave answering smiles.

It was good to be Faultless.

—

“What should we do, sister?”

Master Crackle asked his twin plaintively.

“You figure it out.” His twin sister snapped as she finished tying on her Highwatch armour. She still begrudged him his position as Master Brewer of Crackin’ Brews. Especially as she’d essentially been forced into the life of an on-again-off-again adventurer by necessity. She still wore her own Master Brewer armour beneath her HIghwatch plate.

“This isn’t about tha contest. I’m talkin’ ‘bout tha gnomish brew!”

She finished snapping the last few clasps. “You said it provides an energy boostin’ Condition?”

“So he claims.”

His sister made a flicking gesture. “It’ll be huge. Get the recipe and start makin’ it as fast as possible. We need ta beat the others to it.”

“Goldstone thinks that we’d need a gnome to sell it properly. That no gnomes will trust a dwarf to make them proper beer.”

“Brother! I’m in tha Highwatch! By my word thousands of members of the army and highwatch will buy that beer. And where the brave dwarves of the army lead, the adventurers and then everyone else will follow. We don’t need the gnomes. Now give me a hug goodbye, you may never see me again.”

They clasped wrists, then pulled in for a hug.

Mince Crackle closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of his sister. She smelled faintly of sandalwood and leather. The smell of armour and beard oil. They broke apart and his sister departed on her mission to keep the highway safe for travelers.

Sandalwood and leather….

Crackle’s eyes widened.

–

That night from a large building in the east of Minnova there was the bleating sound of a goat. Then high-pitched maniacal dwarven laughter.

Clowders of cats fled the neighbourhood, their tails held high and backs arched in fright.

A sign affixed over the entryway declared: Moon Over Minnova.

–

In his study, Ambermine of the West Crackian Mines hissed as he read the report.

Another of his corporate combat squads had been taken out by those damn Pots! And he was still holed up in here, unable to take a single step. He massaged his freshly healed leg; it had nearly been chopped clean off by Copperpot’s attack.

DAMN those useless operatives of his. The best [Assassins] in his employ, and they’d been defeated by a surprised old coot and two Godsbedamned BEER ARTISTS!

With a surge of anger he flipped the coffee table, spilling his tea and the papers to the floor. His chest heaved with anger, and one corner of his mind idly wondered if this was what the Red Rage felt like.

He drank the feeling in. It was delicious.

As the anger subsided, Ambermine flopped back onto the couch with a sigh. The family [Butler] scurried to clean up the mess, and everything was tidy again in a few moments.

Ambermine idly picked up a letter from the pile the [Butler] had deposited back on the table. It was made of the finest paper, and smelled faintly of perfume.

It was the scent of nobility and power.

This letter was one of many that had made their way to the Mine Corporation. It promised wealth and opportunity. An opportunity for all gnomes, but an opportunity for THEM all the more.

He hadn’t been desperate enough to consider the offer before; they’d weathered worse storms than losing a few mines. But now they were walking the razor’s edge.

And he wanted Copperpot and his friends to pay.

With a knife-edged grin, Ambermine began to pen a reply.