TGC 12 In which I learn the name of a dwarf

Mother stormed away ahead of me. Practically jogging to keep up, I pulled at her sleeve, but alas she would not be slowed. Over the uneven boards, she stormed. Past the huddled groups of dwarves, she marched, all the way back to the inn with her hands balled into fists. All the while, I jogged behind her. I could barely recognise my mother; she was so angry. A strange power seemed to radiate from her – a power so fierce that I saw several dwarves we passed visibly back away into doorways.

Once we made it back to the inn, Mother stormed through the curtain, up the stairs and slammed the door to our room behind her before I’d even started to climb the stairs. I felt hot tears run down my grimy cheeks and heard a voice speak beside me – a gruff voice with a sprinkling of kindness but now a hint of mystery was present too or was it menace. “Come – little goblin. I think your mother needs a little time.” It was the dwarf again, I turned to face him, ready to roar. I now knew he’d been following us that day. I had no proof – but I was sure he’d made certain no ship would offer us passage to Nirvaasan. But turning to face him, I felt my anger fade away like water draining from a sink. It’s a funny thing, it’s an awful lot easier to be angry at someone or something you can’t see. Much easier to be angry at an idea or a perceived slight than an actual being. “Come – little goblin,” he repeated, his voice was softer now, “come and sit by the fire a little while. Your mother will come down soon enough.”

Reluctantly, I allowed him to guide me by my shoulders back through the curtain and be seated in one of the soggy armchairs I’d sat in the night before.

“Flussmann,” called the dwarf, “bring me some milk.” He lowered himself into the armchair next to mine, pulled a bronze coin from his pocket and turned to face me.

I pointedly turned away. Desperate to look at anything besides his stupid glasses, I surveyed the room and noticed something that I hadn’t spotted when Mother had stormed through the room: a hooded figure slumped on the floor. The figure looked as though they were sleeping, their chest rising and falling gently as they breathed. There was something about this figure that made me feel uneasy – an aura about them – a dormant unbridled power – present even as they slept on the floor of an inn. Suddenly feeling that the dwarf’s stupid glasses were a preferable sight to be looking at to this strange figure, I turned to face him.

“Don’t worry about them - little goblin,” He nodded at the hooded figure. “I know them well enough; they’ll do you no harm.”

“I wasn’t worrying about them,” I snapped at him.

He chuckled at that. “I sense – little goblin – that you might be a little angry with me.”

I said nothing and Flussmann chose that moment to arrive with the milk.

“There we go,” said the dwarf with the glasses. “put it there Flussmann, good lad.” Flussmann placed the steaming mug on the table between the dwarf with the glasses and me before shuffling back through the curtain.

“What I can promise you – little goblin,” the dwarf continued, unperturbed by the one-sided nature of our conversation, “is that in spite of your appearances, I am a friend. You can trust me, although I know better than most that trust can never be commanded and only ever earned so I will sit here until your mother comes down but I won’t try to make you talk to me.” With that, he leaned back into his chair and rolled the brass coin he had in his hands over his knuckles and back the other way.

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