“In what may have seemed to be a paradox, Blood-affinity mages - especially water-major ones - are widely known to be the most durable combatants in existence by far, yet at the same time, the vast majority of these individuals met a premature end in the fields of battle. It was hypothesized that their belief in their own durability often led to their very downfalls, as they had a tendency to overextend and take on challenges where they bit off way more than they could have ever chewed” - Largo Escher, Dwarven scholar on magical theories.

Much to her surprise, when Cal followed the formally dressed dwarven page who came to fetch her from the inn she stayed that night, he led her not to any fancy place, but towards the largest barracks complex in the undercity instead. Their path took them towards a large stone building fashioned after a lodgehouse, which served as the canteen for the barracks at large, and as she entered, she noticed that it was populated almost entirely by rugged soldiers who barely spared a glance her way. Of note was how many other races were part of the soldierly, although dwarves still occupied at least half the seats in the house.

The young page led her towards a table that was unremarkable, other than the sparse amount of people seated around it. Cal saw that only three old dwarves - one of whom was very old, his hair and beard white with age, somewhat sparse instead of the luxurious beards dwarves typically affected -, all of whom looked like old veterans who were tough as nails.The younger ones proudly bore a multitude of old scars on their features, yet oddly the oldest one had not a single blemish on his old, wrinkled, wizened mien. The three dwarves had dressed little differently from the many soldiers that populated the house, with roughspun tunics and trousers, although the occasional looks of respect a soldier threw their way hinted that they were of higher influence at the least.

“Och aye, ye came, lassie.” Drawled the oldest of the dwarves with a thick accent to his brogue. “Seat yerself, hav some grub. I’m black-affronted we offer little better than soldier fare here, but them’s the breaks.”

“Enchanted.” Cal replied politely as she seated herself. Despite his unassuming looks, she assumed that the old dwarf was the “royal uncle” that invited her, for she was certain she saw his likeness on the royal balcony earlier during the events, albeit somewhat unclearly due to the distances involved.

“Ah dinnae ken whaer ye from, lassie, care te tell us ‘bout yerself a tad?” Added the old dwarf as he offered her a wooden mug filled with strong dark ale. “Ye ken call me Ol’ Aelfried if ye laik.”

“That’s his right honorable, Royal Uncle, Graf von Meergant, Aelfried Stahlfaust II.” Tersely interrupted the younger dwarf seated to the old one’s left.

“Ach, bollocks!” Said Aelfried as he audibly clonked the younger dwarf up the head with an empty mug. “Hush wit’ de damn title, boy. They ain’t got place for the table. Ah’m just another old trooper here.”

“But dad-!” Complained the younger one as his comrade seated across him just gave a resigned sigh, before he was shut up by another mug to the head by the “Royal Uncle”.

“Jez ‘cause me brudder be da king some generations ago ain’t mean shit, jez accident o’ birth, I tell ya.” Said Aelfried with an annoyed tone. “So what yer name be, lassie?”

“Celeysria Ambervale, from Al-Shan. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sir Aelfried the Undying.” Cal replied, as the chat had clued her in on the old dwarf’s identity. A hero of his country from wars fought before she was even born, whose name was well-known even in the archipelago.

“Gaun’nae no dae dat? Dat’s jez some old stories lass.” Said the old dwarf in embarrassment. “Wait wait… Ambervale… half a long ear… Al-Shan… Ye be de Blood Demon?”

“Some called me that.” Cal admitted bluntly as she chugged down the ale in her mug and gave out a refreshed sigh. “Now I’m just a retired woman out to see the world.”

“Ah wish ah’d be as carefree as ye, lass.” Sighed the old dwarf. “Sounds laik real idyllic way to life, dat.”

“Enuff’ small chat, ah invited ye to dinner and dinner ye shall have first.” He added after a though. “Hope ye ain’t minding some humble troop fare.”

“Doubt I’ll mind.” Cal answered honestly. “Whatever your cook made smelled better than the slop I had to eat at times already.”

The old dwarf guffawed at that response.

**********************************************

As soldier fares go, Cal had to admit the dwarves fed their soldiers better than most. The food served before her had a bowl of gruel as the main fare, made from ground millet, barley, and wheat, flavored with a sauce made from fermented fishes and a dab of butter. To accompany it, hard, crisped flatbreads were served, eaten with slices of smoked, roasted lard which had been rubbed with dry spices, which gave it a pleasant, if rather fatty flavor. Cuts of cold cheeses were also served alongside with some fresh fruits, and a cup of beverage meant for soldiers on the march - a type of sour wine made with a mix of water, wine vinegar, some herbs, a pinch of salt, and a little bit of honey - was a fitting aperitif.

It was all pretty simple fare, made with ingredients that were either preserved and easily carried, or easily foraged for from the surroundings, yet it gave Cal some nostalgic feelings, which reminded her of the bitter days where the Loyalists in Al-Shan still fought a guerilla battle against the usurper, and was often on the run. They had subsisted on much worse fare back then.

They ate in relative silence and only made some inconsequential small talk before another figure came in and seated herself at their table, right across from Cal. The figure caught her attention the moment she entered due to the sound her wooden peg leg made as she walked, and the way the empty right sleeve of her tunic was bound shortly after the shoulder. The young therian woman - Cal approximated that she was probably in her late teens to her early twenties at most - had features that resembled that of a large, predatory cat, with black fur all over her body, and a mouth full of sharp fangs. Her left eye was a milky white, a great contrast to the catlike green iris of her right eye.

The little fact that the woman's one hand was far more humanlike than it would be for a full-blooded therian, as well as her full head of shiny, lustrous black hair, fashioned into a multitude of rope-like strands that fell to just under her shoulder, further clued on her likely mixed ancestry.

“A’m droukit!” Stated the young therian with an accent as thick as the old dwarf. “A’m fair wabbit, drouthy tae, ya dinnae offer a cup fer meself, uncle?” She asked to the younger dwarf that took the mugs to his face earlier.

“Help yerself, Ros.” Said the dwarf with a resigned, long-suffering sigh as he slid a mug of ale towards the young therian.. “I swear yer accent gets more atrocious by the day.”

“Aye, Right!” Chortled Aelfried. “Lil’ Roslin spake jez fine, laddie. Been up to yer oxters trainin’ ‘gain, eh, me lil’ lassie?”

“Och Aye, Masta!” Replied the young therian cheerfully. “Gotta rep up fer ‘morrow’s fight!”

“Caw canny wi de bod, lass, eat well, sleep well. Dinnae fash yersel’.” Advised the old dwarf with a paternal look full of pride on his face.

As they chatted and ate, Cal learned that the young, crippled therian was an unwanted child, who the old dwarf had found discarded into a river sixteen years hence. Her arm, leg, and eyes, were defects she was born with, and while healing magic could treat dismemberment and worse with a powerful enough practitioner, they were completely powerless when faced with such inborn defects, and in many places, children born with obvious defects were often thrown away and left to die in the wilds.

Roslin Stahlfaust had been fortunate that her cries were heard by soldiers as they passed near the river, and the old dwarf, who was on his way back to the capital from an inspection at the time, took pity on the babe and adopted her as his own. In a way, the old dwarf had also intended to raise the little therian girl as his successor, for his own progeny had leaned more to scholarly pursuits, which left nobody suitable to have carried his legacy as a warrior onward.

That the therian girl was half crippled had not even bothered him at the slightest.

The younger dwarf seated to Aelfried’s left, his son Aedelbart, had formally thanked Cal for her swift actions on the arena earlier that night, and his sister Gudrid who sat next to Cal to her father’s right echoed the sentiment. For her own part, Cal found herself engrossed in a chat with old Aelfried himself and his young disciple.

From the old dwarf, Cal learned that the next day would be a celebration for the current king’s two hundredth birthday, which necessitated grand events in the arena, of which Roslin was slated to be part of tomorrow. As she and the old dwarf traded old war stories and drained mug after mug of ale together, Aelfried aired a query whether she might be interested in a good fight with him tomorrow, for the old dwarf had lamented the lack of opponents able to fight him seriously in his years. He was a Water-major Blood mage much like Cal herself, and what he mentioned was a sentiment she somewhat shared from her own experiences.

Maybe it was the liquor that affected her judgement somewhat at that moment, but she agreed to the old dwarf’s request to “stretch their muscles” in the arena the next day.