"More commissions will come—we're partners, after all," Sean said, smiling at Bach Bronzehammer. "But I called you here for something even more important."
"More important than commissions?" The dwarf blacksmith snorted. "For my forge, orders are life itself."
"Don't dismiss it yet. Remember when we discussed dwarven spirits?" Sean pressed.
Bach tilted his head, scratching his beard. "Apologies, Lord Sean—it's been half a month. My memory's not what it was at 87."
Sean waved it off. "No matter. You mentioned drinking dwarven spirits before, correct?"
"Of course!" Bach boomed, stroking his fiery red beard. "Last had it over a century ago, when I was just a lad. Sharp, fiery, warming the bones better than any ale—none of that weak human swill that barely gets you tipsy." His eyes lingered on the wine barrel beside Sean. "Found some in a ruin, did you? Want me to appraise it?"
Sean ignored the question, gesturing to Windsor. "I brought you here to see if this matches your memory of dwarven spirits."
Windsor handed Bach the barrel. The dwarf, experienced in appraising ruin-found spirits, scoffed, "New barrel, I see. Waste of oak—most ruin spirits turn sour within decades."
But as he sniffed the wood, his nose twitched. No sourness—just sharp, pungent alcohol. He yanked the cork, inhaling deeply, eyes widening as the aroma of pure, unspoiled spirit hit his nostrils.
"By the Dwarven Fathers!" he gasped, nearly dropping the barrel. "This smells like the real thing! Perfectly preserved. Where did you find it? I'll pay 50 gold—no, 100! That's all I have." He hugged the barrel like a long-lost child.
Sean chuckled, "I'm not selling it, Bach."
The dwarf's face fell. "273 gold—my life savings!"
"No, no." Sean stood, grinning. "First: it's a gift. We're partners, aren't we?"
Bach's beard twitched with delight, already planning to gift Sean his prized Bronze Rank longbow (worth 40 gold) in return.
"Second: you're mistaken about its origin. This wasn't found in a ruin." Sean paused, dramatic. "I brewed it—guided by the Light. We call it Holy Flame Spirit."
Bach's jaw dropped, the barrel slipping in his grasp. He stared, hands trembling. If true, Sean held the lost dwarven spirits recipe—the key to a clan's revival.
Two centuries prior, the Spirits Clan dominated the Dwarven Kingdom by monopolizing spirit production, a necessity in their icy highlands. When orcs invaded a century ago, the clan fell, their recipes burned with the capital. Dwarves had searched ruins for decades, finding only sour dregs.
Now, the recipe's revival meant one thing: upheaval in the Dwarven Kingdom.
Bach's mind raced. The Spirits Clan's return would shake the hierarchy, making whoever controlled the recipe a power to rival even the Mountain Kings. And Sean, a human lord, held that power…
"You… you brewed it?" Bach whispered, reverent.
"Not just brewed." Sean leaned in, voice low. "I can reproduce it—endlessly. Imagine: dwarven spirits flowing again, not from ruins, but from your forge's very own barrels."
The dwarf's eyes lit like forges. "The clans will go mad for this! The Mountain Kings themselves would pay a fortune—"
"Which is why I need your help," Sean interrupted, smooth as molten steel. "I want to mass-produce it. But I need dwarven craftsmanship—oak barrels, iron stills, precision tools. Can you provide them?"
Bach nodded, dazed. "Aye, but… why trust me? I'm just a lowly blacksmith."
"Because you're the only dwarf in Yorn who remembers true dwarven spirits," Sean said, clapping his shoulder. "And because I have a proposition: partnership. You provide the tools, I provide the recipe. We'll flood the Dwarven Kingdom with Holy Flame Spirit—and split the profits."
Bach's hesitation melted, replaced by the greed of a dwarf who saw destiny in a wine barrel. "Agreed! I'll start drafting blueprints for the stills tonight. But one thing—" He tapped the barrel. "May I… taste it?"
Sean laughed, pouring a cup. "Be my guest. Just remember—this is only the beginning."
As Bach took a sip, eyes watering with nostalgia and greed, Sean smiled. The dwarves' obsession with their lost spirits was now his leverage. With Bach as an ally, firearms and fortune might yet save Riverside.
Nebula chirped from his pocket, unaware of the political storm brewing over a simple barrel of alcohol. But Sean knew: in a world of swords and spells, sometimes the most powerful weapon was a recipe… and a dwarf's longing for home.