"Pellanor in the Otherworld"

The aroma of fresh-cooked meat, the bouquet of various wines and ales, and the enticing laughter of a dozen cheerful conversations would have been much more enjoyable if the dwarf hadn’t been lying flat on his back. His rugged face was edged by a trimmed rusty-red beard less than a hand in length, short enough that many non-dwarves mistook him for a surprisingly muscular female dwarf. But such an appraisal would have been dissuaded as soon as they heard his deep, gravelly voice. His current position hadn’t resulted from combat, nor from a fall. In fact, he couldn’t recall why it was that he’d come to be lying here–

And where exactly was here?

“You’re in the Otherworld,” an even deeper voice answered from somewhere nearby. “And to answer your other question, I brought you here.”

The dwarf picked up his head and peered around.

He lay in the middle of a cobblestone road, wide enough for two carts to pass abreast, though thankfully none of them had chosen this particular moment to do so. Modest two- and three-story buildings, mostly wattle and daub construction, lined both sides of the avenue, which was packed with pedestrians and the occasional rider. Vendors plied their wares from shop doorways or from carts close under an overhang here and there. And this street poured into another street, even bigger, with even more passersby.

There were other dwarves mingling through the crowds, as well as elves, half-elves, halflings, dozens of humans, even a few orcs and goblins, and more exotic species he couldn’t quite identify. There were two qualities of this place that immediately impressed themselves on the dwarf’s mind:

The town was surprisingly clean. There were no horse droppings, beggar’s leftovers, or trash of any kind filling the nooks and crannies of the place, the way they did in every other “normal” town he’d ever known.

Most striking of all was the fact that every single individual, young or old, rich or poor, buyer, seller, visitor or resident, was happy. Everyone wore a wide smile. Every conversation was filled with bits of laughter. Even the animals, it seemed, were cheerful, or at least content.

And the biggest smile graced the face of the massive fellow sitting on a large wooden bench beside him, a dwarf of extreme size, as tall as any troll he’d ever seen, and as wide as any barrel. His plate mail gleamed like the rarest mithril. His long gray beard hung below a wide blue belt, and his eyebrows were as thick and bushy as most beards. He propped one elbow on a warhammer as big as a small tree, and in his other hand he held a foaming tankard that could have quenched the thirst of a dozen warriors.

“And why shouldn’t they be smiling?” the jovial dwarf added. “Considering where they are and all.”

The supine dwarf propped himself up on his elbows. “And where exactly is that?” he asked, with an out-of-place grumble.

Swinging his tankard for emphasis, the jovial one roared, “Why, you’re in the Otherworld, m’lad!” He raised the drink to the folk around him, and each one replied with equal merriment.

The dwarf lying in the street scoffed. “Fergive me if’n I don’t see what all there is t’ be joyful about.” He set about picking himself up, getting to his knees first, then managing to gain his feet with a groan. He wore no armor, which was unusual for him, and was clad only in breeches and a leather vest over a simple homespun shirt, with standard black walking boots. He noticed that on his head sat a gaily colored red-and-green pointed cap, a bycocket, which he instantly grabbed and tossed grumpily aside.

As he did, the larger dwarf laughed, and the sparkle in his voice almost compelled the grumpy one to join him. Almost. “Come now, Master Dwarf, certainly there is much to be cheerful about. You are, after all, in the presence of your greatest hero.” The sparkle in his voice matched the twinkle in his eye.

“So, yer the feller that invented beer?” the smaller dwarf joked. Then, with the joke still lingering in his thoughts, he realized–

“My god!” the dwarf exclaimed. “You’re Moradin!”

“Literally and figuratively, my good fellow,” the jovial one replied, and did a slight bow, raising his tankard again. “And you are Pellanor, the brave and fearless warrior about whom I’ve heard so much.”

The smaller dwarf paused. “Pellanor.” He turned the name over and over in his head. The name did sound familiar, but it seemed as out-of-place as the ridiculous clothes he wore.

The one who called himself Moradin chuckled again, a sound that seemed to bring a warm and soothing breeze to every banner and stall shade. “My apologies. I thought you’d enjoy a bit of a change of pace. Here.” And with another nod, the smaller dwarf named Pellanor found he was now garbed in his normal adventuring gear: a chainmail shirt and steel helm to match, sturdy hobnailed boots, a backpack and belt pouch, and a dirk thrust into a well-worn sheath. The only thing missing was–

“Ah, yes, your weapon,” the Moradin figure replied. “I was getting to that.” He reached up with his free hand, his elbow still propping the warhammer in place, and pulled seemingly from the air itself a normal-sized tankard for Pellanor. “Let’s talk a bit first, shall we?”

He offered it to the smaller dwarf, though it seemed like a child’s plaything in the God’s hand. Pellanor realized immediately that he had a powerful thirst, but then as he patted his pouch, also realized he had no coins to pay for it.

Moradin laughed again, and every doubt and care in Pellanor’s mind seemed to melt away. “Don't worry about paying for things up here, lad. Everything in the Otherworld is free!”

“Guess that’s why everyone is so damn cheerful,” Pellanor commented, looking about.

Moradin saluted with his slightly raised tankard. “Now you’re catching on.”

Pellanor cautiously took a sip from his own tankard. The beverage was cool and sweet, like a mixture of honeyed mead and Springwine, with a hint of berries and mint-ice. He’d never in his life experienced such a wonderful concoction. He took a deeper draught, and the drink poured into his body and seemed to illuminate his very soul. His grumpiness vanished like frost on a sunlit morning.

“One of my own mixtures,” Moradin said, with a slight wink. “I call it, ‘The Warrior’s Relief.’ Guaranteed to heal every injury, soothe every doubt, and strengthen even the weakest of spines.”

Wiping the foam away from his lips, Pellanor spoke up. “So, what did you call this place? And why am I here?”

The being who called himself Moradin smiled wide again. “This is the Otherworld. Not quite Heaven, and decidedly not Hell. You’re not dead – not yet, anyway. It’s a place where the Undecided are allowed to visit, to take some time to choose whether to return to their lives back there. I thought it would be a safe place for me to approach you with a…” His words drifted off as he stared down at Pellanor. “Let’s call it a proposition.”

He placed the large tankard on the bench beside him, a bench far too tall for Pellanor to climb up and join him. But Pellanor was too interested in hearing about this “proposition” to worry about the seating arrangements.

“Y’see, Pellanor m’lad,” Moradin began, “there are many worlds out there, far more than you could possibly imagine. In most of them, the dwarven race prospers and thrives, but not in all of them.” Here for the first time in their conversation, the god seemed to harbor a tinge of sadness. “There are some worlds where our brethren have suffered mightily at the hands of the other races they’ve faced. There’s one world in particular–”

These few details were already getting to be a bit too much for Pellanor to absorb. “Fergive me, m’lord,” he interrupted, “ but whaddya mean, ‘many worlds’?”

Moradin chuckled again, and the moment of sadness passed like a swift-moving cloud on a wide, empty sky. “Think of them as individual rooms in a vast castle. They’re connected by doorways, corridors, even secret passageways. They exist separately from each other, but reachable with the right knowledge.” He winked again. “And the right key.”

He waved his left hand in a wide circle, and a swirling portal of sparkling gold and silver appeared there beside them. Within the opening appeared a different land: bright and vibrant and ringing with the sounds of battle. Hundreds of armor-clad dwarves defended the ramparts of a besieged castle wall against hordes of fell beasts, and one or two flying creatures of unimaginable terror. But the dwarves seemed well organized and coordinated, as they dropped attacker after attacker with little damage to themselves. The few dwarves who were wounded were quickly attended to by clerics whose hands glowed with the warm energy of healing spells, before they spun about to add their powerful forces to bring down some of the closer flying creatures.

The sight of the battle tugged at Pellanor’s heart. He took two steps towards the opening as he reached his free hand for his weapon, before he realized he had none, other than the dirk at his belt.

Moradin caught this moment of desire, and smiled again. With another wave of his hand, he closed the portal, which shimmered into nonexistence, leaving Pellanor gasping in unquenched desire to join his brethren in defending their lands.

“Have no worry about them, Master Dwarf,” Moradin said with his deep, booming voice. “Those brave souls are numerous and well-led, and supported by many Believers who have a connection ‘tween themselves and my bountiful aid.”

He made another wave of his left hand, but this time, the swirling and sparkling circle opened into a dark and desolate land. A walled dwarven city appeared, with beautifully carved and placed granite megaliths, closely fitted together with great skill into an unbreachable wall. A massive gate with towering crenulations loomed above a wide avenue of basalt and obsidian. But no dwarves walked the lanes, nor stood guard on its walls. Instead, lumps of rusted steel lay here and there, gathered in clumps or scattered across the vast, empty plains before the walls.

Pellanor needed no explanation: he knew instinctively this was the scene of an appalling defeat of the dwarves in a time long past. Indeed, one section of the walls had been demolished by some massive explosion. Something more powerful than even an elder dragon's fierce breath had caused this disaster. There were other sections of the great walls off to both sides that had also been exploded, scattering massive stones like toys across the landscape.

Despite the evidence of a once great kingdom, the area was desolate. There was no sign of life. Pellanor felt a great sadness upon viewing this battlefield, and almost wept.

The god took pity on him then, and closed the portal. “That is indeed a sad sight, Master Dwarf.”

“But you’re a god!” Pellanor cried, his voice raspy with anguish. “How could you let this happen?”

Moradin placed his mighty tankard on the bench beside him, and looked down at the dwarf. “Because I cannot be in all places at once. I can bring my might to bear, surely, but only through using other dwarves as my instruments. There weren’t enough of my followers in that world. Because of that,” he said, sighing, “that great calamity occurred.”

“So what is it you want of me?” Pellanor asked. “Will you send me back there to bury the bodies? Melt down the armor and make mighty statues of you, is that it?”

This time, the god Moradin did not smile, nor wink, nor utter a calming chuckle. He narrowed his eyes and spoke plainly. “Pellanor, I want you to do the impossible: to go to that world and prevent that catastrophe from ever happening in the first place.”

There was a pause between them, as the happy populace continued on their rounds. Carts continued their creaking ways, while children laughed and ran, and their elders spoke about their own important matters.

Finally, the shorter dwarf found his voice. “You want me to do the impossible? Change time? Rewrite history?”

Moradin scratched the chin under his portcullis-sized beard. “Something like that, yes. There are such things as wishes, bestowed upon certain magic items that you might come across. Or you might get lucky enough to cross paths with a chronomage, who–”

“A what?” Pellanor asked.

“A chronomage. They’re a specialized branch of wizardry who deal with time,” Moradin explained. “The most powerful of their kind can unwrap the threads of time itself, and weave the tendrils of the past in new, more hopeful directions.”

“Then why don’t you find one o’ them to change this world for ye?” Pellanor asked.

“I would, if there were a dwarf who specialized in such arcana, and who was available,” the god replied. “I can only work with dwarves such as yourselves, and there are none I can reach with such skills.”

Pellanor shook his head. “Fergive me again, Great One,” Pellanor replied, “but I’m not sure this is a task that I feel capable of completing.”

The twinkle returned to Moradin’s eyes. “Now you’re selling yourself short, Master Dwarf!” He spread his great hands wide. “Why, you have every skill necessary for this mission. You’re strong of limb and of mind, and you have a keen eye for the mystical. You’ve fought hard in the past, and you’ve never given up, even when the odds seemed against you. You’ve got the experience that’s needed, and you don’t have family to tie you to your, well, let’s call it your previous world.”

“And what’s more,” he said, lowering his left hand to just above Pellanor’s head, “this time, you’ll have my aid with you day and night.”

A soft green-gold glow encompassed Pellanor’s form. For a moment, he felt infused with hope and desire combined, a feeling that he could accomplish any task, as long as he believed hard enough, with all his mind and soul.

“You’ll also be needing a weapon of strength and power to see you through such a mission.” Moradin looked around, and spotted something in front of a nearby storefront. He stood up from the bench, leaving his own mighty warhammer to rest against a nearby wall, and strode over to the storefront.

It was the shop of a statue maker. His storefront’s exterior was lined with shelves and racks of stonework, both large and small. Most were of fey creatures, fairies and pixies and the occasional centaur and satyr. Near the door stood a strong metal pole with a perpendicular banner-rod, from which a brightly woven banner hung, which read:

“Gnome Sweet Gnome.”

With a grunt, Moradin pulled it out of the stone curbing, and carried it back to Pellanor.

The short dwarf stared at what was essentially an eight-foot flagpole. “You must be joking.”

The god laughed heartily. “Not at all, Master Dwarf! With my energy suffused within this iron staff, you’ll be able to take down nearly any foe.” Noticing the dwarf’s disbelief, he scratched his bearded chin again. “Maybe this would help.”

Moradin stroked the iron shaft from top to bottom and back again. The pole shimmered and in an instant became a silver-and-brass-trimmed steel-hafted glaive, still eight feet long, but encompassing a wicked gleaming blade nearly three feet long at its tip. “Is that better?”

Pellanor accepted the weapon, and felt the energy within pulse as he grabbed hold.

“I cannot grant you all of its powers immediately,” Moradin said, crossing his arms and studying the smaller dwarf, as he practiced lunges and full-bodied sweeps. “But as you use the weapon, and bind with it to conquer your foes, it will open up more of itself to you. And if you come across any other magic items whose power seems worthy,” he added, as he took a step back from the warrior’s intense practice swings, “you may be able to add their magicks to this one.”

Finally satisfied with the weapon’s balance and craftsmanship, Pellanor struck the haft on the cobblestones of the street. A resounding crack echoed up and down the avenue.

“It’ll do,” he said, with a wry grin.

“No matter how well you wield that weapon, you’ll need to find yourself some comrades,” Moradin said, as he grabbed up his own weapon and retook his seat on the tall bench. “Find yourself some trustworthy souls, those who’ll have your back when things are toughest, ones you can count on in a fight. When you call on me for aid, I’ll supply it to you and your closest allies. I’ll do all I can on my end, though my aid will be limited. Even we gods have rules that we must abide by.” He glanced up into the clear blue sky at something Unseen, and gave a gentle sort of scoff.

“C’n you at least tell me exactly what it is I must do?” Pellanor asked.

Moradin smiled again. “I already have, Master Dwarf! Go back to that world I’ve shown you, and make it so that the disaster that befell the dwarven race never happened.”

Now it was Pellanor’s turn to scratch the chin under his ruddy beard. “Could ye be a little more specific, as to how exactly I’m supposed to do that?”

The god shook his head. “More than that, I cannot say. I am constrained by the rules we gods operate under. I can tell you what I want you to do. The how and why, I must leave up to you.”

He thought for a moment, then added, “I will tell you this: most avatars of the gods are required to take oaths that bind them to a certain way of doing things, a code, an ethos, if you will.” Moradin grasped his own great weapon tightly so tightly that his fingers turned red, then white. “I make no such requirement of you. Your only oath is to see this mission through, no matter the cost, no matter what it takes. Bring back the lost dwarven lives. Reset the timeline so that the great catastrophe never occurred. Heal the pain and suffering, and you shall go down in dwarven history as Pellanor the Rift-Mender!”

He raised his war hammer, and brought it down with such a thunderous boom on the cobblestones that every resident and animal stopped in their tracks. The reverberations shuddered through the Otherworld like a mighty earthquake, a peal of thunder that echoed off through the distant hills like an unending ripple of thunder. “This I swear, as Moradin, god of all Dwarvenkind.”

Even Pellanor was awed by this display of Moradin’s power. With a deep bow, he said, softly, “I give you my word to follow this quest to its full completion, or to the end of my days.”

Moradin reached down again and touched the dwarf on his metal helm. “I expect you’ll outlive most of your kind, Master Dwarf.”

He stood up, and with a sweep of his left hand, he opened another shimmering portal, this time into a brightly lit field of swaying yellow grass and distant treelines. “May the suns warm your path, and may the stars illuminate your dreams.”

And with that, Pellanor was gone.

The next thing he remembered, he was lying flat on his back in the middle of a sunlit meadow.

Pellanor grumbled, “I hope this won’t become a habit.”