Neverwinter had a stink to it, the usual stench of a city. Too many smells. Too many noises. Too many people. Too many BIG people. While Fenric had become accustomed to making his way through busy streets like this, he always found it a draining experience. He could never last long before needing to return to the open air of the valley, or the cool shadows of the northern woods.

The tiny halfling bared his teeth at a child that was pointing and tugging on its tall-person’s arm. Fenric’s snarl elicited the desired result of a shriek of fear followed by running away. The sideways glances or overt stares were another thing Fenric had become accustomed to. There were others who dressed as he did, in the rough leathers and skins of those who lived outside these city walls, but few tended to be like those of his clan. It was a long way to the Luirwood and the Great Sea where it would be common to find other Stronghearts in numbers, though it had probably been generations since Fenric’s ancestors had lived there. His family were more nomadic, sticking to the wilderness and away from most of the trappings of civilization. Father said that they had come to the northern woods near the coast because Mother “had eaten too many of the farmers’ sheep”. That statement had been followed by so much laughter by both of them that Fenric had not been able to tell if it had really happened or not. Either way, their family had kept moving over the years as he grew up with the rest of the pack, learning the ways of his people. Just as the Neveren children likely had to spend days in a classroom, Fenric needed to spend his days in the woods, studying the plants, learning to swing an axe, and being taught the reasons why city places were “one of the circles of Hell”.

This city was an excellent example of why his parents had probably taught him that lesson.

A horse-drawn carriage splashed his hunched-over form as the cart hurried down the main thoroughfare of the Bluelake district. Fenric shook himself, like a dog, sending water flying in all directions as he dried himself off. His thick pale hair, usually teased out to the sides to help him seem bigger, was now damp and dripping. Muttering curses under his breath at the driver, the halfling looked about, trying to see the signs on the buildings around him through the shifting crowd of towering figures that blocked out the view. What had Gundren called the place? He had said to meet at the place with the… dolphin? Serpent? Was it even in the Bluelake district? Fenric couldn’t rightly remember, but the place across the street smelled right. It was the type of place Gundren would like.

Fenric didn’t know much about Gundren, other than Fenric had taken an instant liking to the dwarf. The barbarian always enjoyed the company of those stocky warrior people. They understood the important things in life. Except for their obsession with shiny rocks, though. Fenric never understood what that was all about. Did dwarves just like rocks because they lived below ground a lot of the time? Fenric preferred a life in the woods, but wasn’t in the habit of collecting shiny sticks on the ground.

Although his father had tried to get him into collecting the teeth of his enemies. But it was such messy work to remove a canine from a jaw! Fenric also never had the patience for the drilling and stringing needed to add to a necklace. Sure, his father’s collection was impressive and it always garnered him compliments within the pack, but Fenric had never really gotten into it. For the warrior, it was the surge of the battle that excited him, not the spoils. His parents had tried to make him understand the importance of intimidation, fear, the demonstration of force – the psychology of the hunt. It had only been later that he had started to understand a little of what Mother and Father had meant.

Now, it was time for Fenric to make his own way, to find his own pack. So here he was in the city, trying to find a dwarf in a tavern somewhere amongst all these giant people. Looking left and right at the busy street, he hunched over even further, almost to the ground, as he surged across the street between the crowds and carts. He was nearly on all fours as he rushed through the legs of a tall figure in a cloak. He caught the scent of something strange as he passed by and looked up. It was tall, whatever it was, and seemed shiny. Like it was covered in metal. Impressive!

Fenric ducked into the tavern, looking about for Gundren’s unmistakable beard. It was darker in here, as if the windows had been shaded, either by grime from neglect or purposeful magics to darken the atmosphere in the day. The room was busy, full of the normal type of adventuring folk, and quite a few local merchants. Even some nobles seemed to be slumming it here, based on the flamboyant dress of one of the figures at the bar.

“Oops, sorry! Didn’t see you there!” came a voice from somewhere above as a knee slammed into the side of his head.

In a smooth motion, the halfling pulled out a battleaxe and swung the haft of the weapon around in an arc, smashing bluntly into the offending knee. A cry came out as the drunken tavern patron’s leg buckled and sent him to his knees. Fenric reached up and grabbed the kneeling man by the scalp and tugged back, hard, until the man’s eyes were level with Fenric’s.

“Oops. Sorry” came the growling words from Fenric’s mouth.

“Hey, none of that in here! Take it outside!” came the cry from from the large man behind the bar.

Fenric stowed his weapon, raised both hands apologetically and then let go of the moaning drunkard who fell hard and then curled up on the floor in pain. The barbarian vowed to keep his temper in check, at least long enough to find out what Gundren had wanted to talk about. The dwarf had said something about a mine…

Credits

• Cover image: “Halfing Barbarian” by Antonio Stappaerts (sourced from Pinterest)