High Country
Near the Fungi Farm District
(Open to All)
The smell of money, as it turned out, was the same as the smell of bull shire.
Noora followed her dear husband into the Fungi Farm District and was hit almost instantly with a smell that brought literal tears to her eyes. They were not, as
Skarphéðinn mistook, tears of joy. The dwarven matron was not used to prancing among the mushrooms and had very little idea, before now, what growing mushrooms entailed. As she and her husband entered the area, she found out that it was, without hyperbole, a lot of crap. Her husband, sweet dolt that he was, found the whole experience a joyful one. He took a huge whiff of the air, made a very
Skarpy like joke, and burst into a belly shaking laugh. He was lucky that she loved him dearly.
She had been carved into a family that was on a downturn, at one point they had been part of the royal inner circle, if the stories of her grandfather and great-grandfather were anywhere near the realm of truth, but had fallen on hard times and thusly had moved to Khazad-dûm in search of new veins of fortune. While their prestige and lineage was enough to get a home in the upper districts, it wasn’t enough to do much more. Her mother had hoped to broker a marriage with another family in the upper districts, but nothing materialized.
Noora was, as it turns out, not interested in any of the families that surrounded her. She’d enduring enough veiled taunts and “sympathy” to last her a lifetime. Her life with
Skarphéðinn was simple, no servants whatsoever (no maids, butlers, or even a driver), but they always managed to be happy. She didn’t often miss her days in the upper districts, with its crumbling facades and false smiles, but today was one of those days. She was walking through a fungi farm with the smell of ripe fecundity invading her nostrils.
“… so, you see, they have to grow most of the mushrooms in the dark, mushrooms love the dark, almost as much as they love poo and water,”
Skarphéðinn was pointing to some of the larger warehouse looking buildings, “they really are like children when you think about it.” That led to a belly laugh from, and a cracked smiled from
Noora.
Another dwarf was running up to join them, it took
Noora a moment to recognize him. The Fungi Farm District was quite dark with lanterns and torches placed at very far intervals. It was Ahti Hakonsson,
Skarpy’s oldest drinking buddy. He’d been the axe bearer at their wedding. Of course
Skarphéðinn would rope him into this scheme. He waved to them, his arm flopping about like a noodle. “
SKARPY!!” His voice carried like booming thunder.
Skarphéðinn turned just in time to see him. They embraced and laughed.
“Ahti! I was beginning to think you weren’t going to make it! You drank enough to down at least three Mirkwood boys and then some! How are you even still standing?”
Ahti laughed and tapped his gut, nearly matching
Skarpy’s own in girth. “It’s all in the gut, that and a lot of practice.
Noora! By the light of Mahal, you look lovelier every time I see you. How have you been my old friend?” they embraced and gave the customer kiss on the cheek. Ahti was almost like a brother to her at this point, a much better brother than her real one, she noted with a hint of bitterness.
“Making sure this one gets off to work in time is almost a full-time job in and of itself, outside of that I’ve started collected something out of the east called ‘manga’. It’s quite fascinating, I think you’d like it, it’s mostly pictures.”
Ahti laughed and they hugged again. “I might have to take you up on that. I might not get to go out drinking too much anymore.
Skarpy and the others convinced me to give a lot into this plan of theirs.”
“When this tour is over,”
Skarphéðinn said, “let’s go back to our place and open a bottle of that elvish stuff, the port wine. We can celebrate in style.”
“Ahti Hakonsson, mushroom farmer, it has a ring to it.”
“It certainly has a smell!” a new voice said out of the darkness, the voice was higher pitched and softer.
“Embla? Is that you?”
Noora asked, squinting.
“Well it’s certainly not my brother,” Embla said, coming into the light. “After Ahti come last night, he told me all about this little operation you have going. I had to come see.”
“It’s certainly good to have a voice of reason with us,”
Noora said, smiling. She felt more at ease now that Embla was here, a more levelheaded (if not sarcastic to a fault) dwarf could not be found within the halls of Khazad-dûm. Ahti’s older sister, and
Noora’s closest confidant, Embla had been the first dwarf that had truly been kind to her, fending off verbal attacks with something more physical and verbose. Her tongue was as sharp as her axe and she was not afraid of using either when push came to shove, and she loved to fight. Her beard was fiery red and dyed with streaks of orange and yellow to give it a truly pyromantic appearance.
“So where are the others,
Skarpy?” she asked, joining the trio and making it a true group. “Ahti told me the whole gang was convinced to go in on this. Rollo? Arthyr? Åsa? When will they be joining?”
“It’s good to see you too Embla,”
Skarphéðinn sighed. “They’ll be here, don’t you worry. I can smell your skepticism from here but trust me. This is a good investment.”
“You can smell something, that’s for sure,” she countered, “for
Noora’s and my poor brother’s sake I hope you’re right.”
Noora put a hand on Embla’s shoulder. “Let’s see how this tour goes,” she said, trying to play peacekeeper between two people that tolerated one another just enough to be in the same circle of friends, “who knows, this might be the first idea
Skarpy and Ahti had that pans out. Remember that one time they tried to start a brewpub that served crème de menthe?”
That got everyone laughing.
Noora sighed in inward relief and prayed this hazy mushroom dream didn’t turn into a bad trip.