sorry. Of course you're fatter than that! You're unique, almost like a 1000K blockbuster!"
Bomba raised her eyebrows in indignation, searching his face for a trace of mockery. Then she remembered who she was dealing with. Stepping closer, she patted the back of his neck. "You're my little rocky fool..."
The troll purred with delight but couldn't be sidetracked. "Bomba babe," he stubbornly continued. "I've been meaning to tell you... I've seen you looking after all those kids..."
Bomba's face darkened. Her shoulders sank. "And?"
"So how about we get our own little Snowies and Bombas? Like, gray and white, you know?"
"Like Dalmatians, you mean? No, wait! What did you just say?"
"I said, how about we get a few little munchkins of our own? Only I meant to ask you, you don't happen to know how to make baby trolls, do you?"
* * *
I was on my way to the castle's front gates when the earth trembled beneath my feet. A rockfall echoed from the walls of the few restored buildings that had risen from amid the ancient ruins still surrounding the donjon. I glanced in the direction of the third defense ring, now enveloped in a cloud of dust. Predictably, the overzealous dwarves had demolished a large chunk of the wall claiming it was beyond repair. They didn't at all enjoy handling large slabs of reinforced concrete girded with steel, so they used every opportunity to demolish the whole thing and build it anew using their own old tried and tested methods.
I startled every time they did it but the result was worth it. Granite was every bit as good as concrete, especially with all the durability runes and resistance to elements that the dwarves generously bestowed on their handiwork. This alone made me feel better, despite the funny feeling that the dwarves' motives weren't exactly altruistic. They didn't get rid of the old concrete slabs but went to great pains to crush them to dust, then strip them of every bit of steel. Mithril fragments and the silver-and-purple bullets that were stuck deep in the concrete came as a salvage bonus to quench their undying beer thirst. Whole barrelfuls — no, whole cellarfuls of beer, by the looks of it. Each!
Recently this had led to an RV between the Dwarven masters and Durin the castle keeper. The prudent zombie dwarf had taken Snowie along complete with his wondrous mithril club, but as it turned out, this wasn't his main trump card during the talks. The burly dwarves were paralyzed with envy when they saw Durin's glittering special-occasion beard. This was a masterpiece conceived by the greatest experts in jewelry and wig making, six metals plaited into six braids: copper, steel, silver, gold, platinum and mithril.
Yes, this was the gift I'd promised to my scorch-faced quartermaster. Had it not been for the beard, I'd still be begging him to agree to the RV. Now though... awe and splendor! Durin with his booming voice commanded respect and secretly dreamed about adding a seventh braid, of adamant this time. Most importantly, he was now relatively easier to deal with — as far as quartermasters went — and devoutly loyal to me as someone who'd reinvigorated both his status and his self-respect.
The talks proved to be an enormous success. Now the dwarves would have to surrender twenty-five percent of all recovered materials to the clan's treasury. Those of you unfamiliar with dwarves' nature shouldn't say anything. I'll repeat for those who are: yes, ladies and gents, you've heard it right. Twenty five!
I hired a group of a dozen goblin rangers headed by Harlequin himself to ensure the dwarves kept their end of the deal. Their custom configuration had cost me a pretty penny. Still, I suppose I had to be grateful that the hire interface allowed me to fine-tune their identities at all. I watched the pay bar go through the roof as I inched up the sliders for bravery, intuition, honesty and integrity. All I could do was shake my head at the resulting identity of a level-headed,
Bomba raised her eyebrows in indignation, searching his face for a trace of mockery. Then she remembered who she was dealing with. Stepping closer, she patted the back of his neck. "You're my little rocky fool..."
The troll purred with delight but couldn't be sidetracked. "Bomba babe," he stubbornly continued. "I've been meaning to tell you... I've seen you looking after all those kids..."
Bomba's face darkened. Her shoulders sank. "And?"
"So how about we get our own little Snowies and Bombas? Like, gray and white, you know?"
"Like Dalmatians, you mean? No, wait! What did you just say?"
"I said, how about we get a few little munchkins of our own? Only I meant to ask you, you don't happen to know how to make baby trolls, do you?"
* * *
I was on my way to the castle's front gates when the earth trembled beneath my feet. A rockfall echoed from the walls of the few restored buildings that had risen from amid the ancient ruins still surrounding the donjon. I glanced in the direction of the third defense ring, now enveloped in a cloud of dust. Predictably, the overzealous dwarves had demolished a large chunk of the wall claiming it was beyond repair. They didn't at all enjoy handling large slabs of reinforced concrete girded with steel, so they used every opportunity to demolish the whole thing and build it anew using their own old tried and tested methods.
I startled every time they did it but the result was worth it. Granite was every bit as good as concrete, especially with all the durability runes and resistance to elements that the dwarves generously bestowed on their handiwork. This alone made me feel better, despite the funny feeling that the dwarves' motives weren't exactly altruistic. They didn't get rid of the old concrete slabs but went to great pains to crush them to dust, then strip them of every bit of steel. Mithril fragments and the silver-and-purple bullets that were stuck deep in the concrete came as a salvage bonus to quench their undying beer thirst. Whole barrelfuls — no, whole cellarfuls of beer, by the looks of it. Each!
Recently this had led to an RV between the Dwarven masters and Durin the castle keeper. The prudent zombie dwarf had taken Snowie along complete with his wondrous mithril club, but as it turned out, this wasn't his main trump card during the talks. The burly dwarves were paralyzed with envy when they saw Durin's glittering special-occasion beard. This was a masterpiece conceived by the greatest experts in jewelry and wig making, six metals plaited into six braids: copper, steel, silver, gold, platinum and mithril.
Yes, this was the gift I'd promised to my scorch-faced quartermaster. Had it not been for the beard, I'd still be begging him to agree to the RV. Now though... awe and splendor! Durin with his booming voice commanded respect and secretly dreamed about adding a seventh braid, of adamant this time. Most importantly, he was now relatively easier to deal with — as far as quartermasters went — and devoutly loyal to me as someone who'd reinvigorated both his status and his self-respect.
The talks proved to be an enormous success. Now the dwarves would have to surrender twenty-five percent of all recovered materials to the clan's treasury. Those of you unfamiliar with dwarves' nature shouldn't say anything. I'll repeat for those who are: yes, ladies and gents, you've heard it right. Twenty five!
I hired a group of a dozen goblin rangers headed by Harlequin himself to ensure the dwarves kept their end of the deal. Their custom configuration had cost me a pretty penny. Still, I suppose I had to be grateful that the hire interface allowed me to fine-tune their identities at all. I watched the pay bar go through the roof as I inched up the sliders for bravery, intuition, honesty and integrity. All I could do was shake my head at the resulting identity of a level-headed,
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