Chapter 2: I was reincarnated as a dwarf but all the beer is bad!

Chapter 2: I was reincarnated as a dwarf but all the beer is bad!

Dwarfs Log, Deathdate 003

These are the voyages of the soul of Peter Phillips. I appear to have died and been transported from my loving family and home to an underground prison hellscape of bad BO and worse beer. I am apparently in the body of a dwarf named Pete. Pete arrived in the city of Minnova about 3 months ago, where he was picked up by the local Guards after he was caught begging for beer in the streets. I took over Pete's body a couple of days ago after I died on earth. I am working in the City of Minnova Prison Mine, where I will remain until such a time as I have paid off Pete`s indenture. I appear to be in deep shit.

I scooped some shit up and plunked it into the cart beside me, and then avoided brushing the sweat out of my eyes. The unigoat in the stall beside me chuffed and added to my work. Yep, a real mountain of shit. After the sulfur and spit debacle I got put on punishment duty by Grim. Goods from the mine are carted down to the city by unigoats, and nobody has cleaned the manure pit in ages because... dwarves. Seriously, some of this stuff has started crusting over.

I admit to being a bit disillusioned here. I don’t know what I was expecting after I died. I wasn’t religious, so heaven was out. I grew up Catholic, but that wore off sometime around the fourth time I got blackout drunk in college. Hell? Purgatory? I certainly wasn’t expecting a small mining town filled with boisterous and outgoing, if slightly surly, hairy alcoholics.

And by the Firmament, the alcohol! It’s ALL SO BAD, and they’re drinking ALL THE TIME!

Wake up? Take a drink.

Break? Take a drink.

Lunch? Take a drink.

Go to jail? Take a drink.

Almost die? You guessed it! Take a drink!

They all love the stuff, and seem to have zero actual tolerance for alcohol. I’d put their beers at around 1% alcohol content, and I haven’t seen anything that appears to be a harder drink. As far as I can tell some dwarf invented beer ages ago, and they all fell so in love with the stuff that they never bothered improving it. There’s some clear thought put into adding flavour, with things added into the mash, but apparently it’s hard to get ingredients when you’re underground.

“How ya’ doin Pete?” A voice interrupted my reverie from the other side of the stables.

“Hi Balin, I’m doing a bit better.” I replied, taking the opportunity to get out from the pit.

“ ’Ave yer memories come back?” Balin asked, as he took a step back. His handlebar moustache quivering at the stench from the manure pit.

Another pair of dwarves, Annie and Wreck walked by, pushing a massive cart filled with ore. There’s a total of 20 dwarves here in the mine. 16 prisoners and the warden Grim, along with Doc Opal, Speaker John, and Whisperer Gemma. Doc Opal was the one who saved me from Sulfur poisoning, and she’s also the one helping take care of my “amnesia”, or as she calls it “damage to the spirit”.

“Not yet,” I replied to Balin as I washed my hands in a trough.

“Nothin’ in yer status page?” Balin kept his distance as I washed up, his eyes tracking Annie. Last night he had confided to me in a drunken stupor that Annie has “the finest beard this side of the Crack” whatever that means. It is a really nice beard though, long and silky with finely woven tresses and a dali moustache. She’s also one of the few blonde dwarves here; everyone is mostly brunette with Doc Opal and Whisperer John having white hair.

“Nope” I replied as I opened my ... status page ... by intoning “status” in my head. A slightly translucent blue box appeared in my vision with a cheery “ding”.L1tLagoon witnessed the first publication of this chapter on Ñøv€l--B1n.

Status: Provided by the Firmament

Name: Peter Phillips Samson

Age: 48 Conditions: None

Race: Dwarf

Blessings: None

Titles: None

Milestones: Outworlder

“Killer Cabbages?” I asked, looking at the leafy greens on my sandwich.

“Aye, they’re full ‘a Mana and good fer the body! Tasty too!” Balin grinned as he took a big bite from his sandwich before chugging down some of his ‘beer’. I started in on my food as well. I’d almost prefer water to this swill, but apparently nobody down here drinks water. It’s all beer and sometimes goat’s milk, though that’s apparently for kids. Of both kinds.

They’ve got pale ales and lagers, but no stouts, no IPAs, no sours. My tankard is currently full of slightly flat lager. It’s completely the wrong glass for this kind of beer. A lager should at the very least be served in a shaker glass, which is wide at the mouth and narrow at the base. This tankard was simply the giant deuce on top of the shit sandwich that was this beer. By my beard, I’m having a shitty day.

---

Doctor Opal Sifsdotter made her way through the mess hall, her plate heaped high with some meat and vegetables along with a large hunk of bread and a cream puff she couldn’t wait to bite into. Her white doctor’s uniform could be a bit of a pain when the beer was flying like tonight. While she was paid a retainer to stay here at the prison camp, she actually served a large number of mines in the area. There were about 10 mines within a short unigoat ride, and there wasn’t a single day that went by without her being called in for some kind of illness, injury, or mishap. She wasn’t quite as good as a Healer for injuries, but her milestones made it easier for her to diagnose problems with the body. Those were plentiful down here in the mines; take Peter for example. Opal looked around the room and spotted him sitting dejectedly next to Balin.

A simple case of sulfur poisoning, and all it took was an aether stone and some knowhow to get him back on his feet. Sure, a Healer could have fixed it with mana straight out, but that required at least two decades study in magic before even getting started on the study of the dwarven body. She made her way over and sat down next to Pete, who was nursing his beer.

“How is the memory doing Peter?” She asked, nodding at Balin and smiling at Pete.

“No better I’m afraid,” Peter smiled back. He really was very handsome, with a well-groomed Garibaldi beard and an Asterix moustache. Quite her type, but she wasn’t interested in bad boys or vagrants. “I can’t seem to remember much of anything, but I’m learning again really quick. Balin’s been a great help.” Balin, hearing his name looked at them before turning back to watch Annie getting hoisted into the air by Wreck to a chant of *Chug!* *Chug!* *Chug!*

“It’s a rather fascinating case. Your heart stopped for about 5 seconds, but that shouldn’t have been enough to damage your spirit. You’re sure you have no conditions?”

“My status says none.” Peter sighed.

“Amnesia is a fully recognized condition, so I’m afraid I’m stumped. I’m not an expert in spirit, so you’ll probably need to go and see a titled Hypnotist to see if they can jog your memory.” Peter looked like he was about to ask something and then stopped, his attention arrested.

“Is...... is that a cream puff?” He stammered. “With cream and everything? Is it sweet?”

“Yes? I’m afraid I can’t share. The staff gets slightly different meals. If you want some dessert, you’ll need to do something extra like Annie over there, or work hard and end your indenture. By the way, I’m sorry about my fees, they’re set by the city.” Opal shrugged apologetically.

“No, I mean, do dwarves...” Peter paused, “I mean, does the Mine have sugar? Can I have some?”

“Some of the sap from the vines in the dungeon is sweet, do you have a sweet tooth?” Opal wouldn’t have pegged Pete for a lover of ladylike treats, but she couldn’t deny any dwarf the love of sweets. She was going to need to watch her own figure, given how much the cook pampered her here. “I’m afraid that you’ll need to do something special before Bran allows you any of his confections.”

“If I have sugar, I can try and fix this awful beer!” Peter jumped up and shouted, drawing several glowers from the people sitting around them. Balin growled.

“Pete, I told ya not to be insultin’ the most holy o’ brews o’ the Dwarves!” Balin hissed. Peter sat back down, his face reddening as he muttered about ‘a measly 8’. Opal shook her head. While amnesia was one thing, a sudden dislike for the perfection that was beer was another thing altogether. Opal made some more small-talk with Balin and Peter before heading to her quarters. She planned to finish her cream puff in peace along with the second one that Bran had given her to hide in her hood. She really needed to watch her figure...

---

Sugar! They have sugar! How is their beer so shit?! Even a complete novice can make a half decent Kit and Kilo beer if they have a malt base and some sugar... Moreover, if I have sugar, I can make syrup! If I have syrup, I can fix the flavour of this damp disaster of a drought!

I took another bite and tried not to reminisce about Caroline’s signature BLT. Would I ever taste it again? Could I go home, or was this my new life now? A bearded life filled with awful ale...

You know what, no. This entire situation was a crime against beer, and as a lifelong brewer I was going to take it personally. I’ve been wondering why I reincarnated here, and I think I finally figured it out. It was my job, nay, my duty as a proud Canadian Craft Brewer to SAVE BEER! I would see a Hefeweizen behind every dwarven bar within the next decade. A Saison in the hand of every dwarven child, or my name wasn’t Peter Phillips – er, Samson! If they didn’t like it, fine – lots of people don’t like beer – butat least dwarven craft beer would no longer be stuck in boozey limbo.

First though, I had to get out of this stupid mine. I mulled over it for a while, until I was broken out of my reverie by Doc Opal’s voice at my side. I looked up and gave her a wide smile. I would come back to this later; I had a whole new life to work on it after all. At least, unless I stumbled on a way to go back to my old one.

—

Somewhere else.

On the side of a cliff stood a white stone gazebo. Mist fell from a great waterfall that stretched beneath it, vanishing into the clouds below. A black mountain rose up behind it, seeming to touch the sky. A circular marble table covered by a complex game-board sat in the centre of the gazebo. The edges of the board seemed to stretch into the distance while still somehow filling a defined space. Eight ornate figurines sat upon the board – a dragon, an elf, two humans, two dwarves, a gnome, and a beastkin. One of them, a white porcelain dwarf holding a tankard, tentatively slid across the board.