Written for both Halibel and Watashiwa since their secret Santa's were too lazy to write a thousand word fic. Hope the rest of you enjoy this insane little fic as well.
Urist McDwarvenson was not the sanest of dwarves. Not by a long shot. Granted, he had all of the finest dwarvenly qualities. he could slay goblins, drink enough to kill a herd of elephants, and juggle cats better than anyone. He lacked all sense of self preservation, like many of his brethren, but somehow, he took it one step further than most. For example, most dwarves, after being disemboweled by the giant kitty they found in the jungle, would seek medical attention, run away, or at least die.
Not Urist, he immediately thought the striped beast would be a wonderful pet, and tried his best to drag it home. Sadly, for many of his companions, this did not end well, as it quickly maimed and killed its way back into the wild.
Sadly, it took a few more times before Urist began to think that maybe it didn't want to live with him, and a few more after that before he stopped trying.
Mostly.
Needless to say, after that fiasco, Urist was left to his own devices. And by 'left to his own devices,' we mean that he was locked up in the deepest parts of the fortress, forced to dig for all eternity.
Not that he didn't break out for a drink now and again, or everyday. Twice, maybe three times. Drinking is an essential part of being a dwarf after all, and never let it be said that Urist McDwarvenson was not the pinnacle of dwarvenly virtue.
Anyways, where were we? Ah yes, Urist was condemned to an eternity of digging, forever expanding their glorious fortress, (barring booze breaks.) He was quite skilled at digging, ever since he won that digging contest back in dwarf kindergarten, and got Shoveley*, he bestest friend in the whole world.
So urist dug, and dug, and dug, and continued digging for what would easily fill an entire trilogy of books, all while happily drinking whatever alcohol he could acquire and thinking fondly of the cat he never managed to get. Finally, it what would be the climax of the trilogy, Urist dug deeper than any dwarf had ever dug before. Ignoring the various signs** that would have deterred a slightly more cautious or sensible dwarf, but Urist pressed on, until he unearthed a giant room.
It was wreathed in iridescent colors, and the walls themselves seemed to pulse with unearthly energy. As he paused to study the sight before him, Urist could hear the faintest sounds of singing, as if a choir of angels were hidden within.
At first, he thought the room was a sign of alcohol withdrawal, and quickly downed another bottle to stave off the dreaded disease, but when the room remained, he explored it, partly out of curiosity, but mainly because he had finished off his last easily accessible bottle.
Sadly, his quest for more alcohol was abruptly halted, as the light of the room surged, and consumed him, transporting him to a realm beyond his ability to comprehend.
*Note to the readers: Shoveley is not, as you might expect, a shovel. He is a pickaxe. Please remember that Urist, like most dwarves, was drinking before he could walk, and was not too skilled with naming things. This is important to remember later. Trust me.
**Signs in this case come in the form of giant, carnivorous badgers. Like, really, REALLY big badgers.
--- --- --- --- ---
It didn't take long for Urist to realize that he was in Hell, for one simple reason.
There was no alcohol.
He looked high, he looked low, and looted a number of stockpiles, all for naught. There was not a drop of booze, quality or otherwise to be found anywhere in this god forsaken realm.
Oh, and there were horrifying insectiod abominations that eviscerated anything they saw on sight, but mostly, it was the lack of alcohol that confirmed his damnation.
Still, Urist was nothing if not an optimist. If Hell lack booze, then he would MAKE booze, the devil take him if he didn't.
Urist reviewed the recipes for brewing the various libations, and quickly realized that while Axey* was a wonderful companion, alongside Armory** and Helmety***, and of course Loinclothy****, none of them were particularly useful
So Urist set out to draft one of the unfortunate denizens of Hell to help him.
* A spear
** A shield
*** A pair of glasses. Urist is classy like that.
**** Surprisingly, a loincloth
--- --- --- --- ---
Urist knew the best way to acquire a companion was to set out on an epic quest. Questing drew all sorts of interesting folk around you, like flies to honey, and then you could just choose the one you wanted.
"Knave, tell me, what evil plagues this land?" Urist inquired, politely grappling and throttling the target of his inquiry.
"Eeeargh!!!" was the response, irritating Urist with his rudeness, though to be fair, he was missing several vital organs. Still, politeness is important to have, especially when death is imminent.
Not to be deterred by the rudeness of others, Urist turned to another nearby fellow."You there! What evil plagues this land?!" Urist said, once again grappling and throttling them.
"Are you mad?!" he shouted, eyes blazing with barely contained rage and dispair, "The Slivers! They consume everything in their path, destroy entire cities, eat the flesh of our children! What evil could be greater than that?!"
Urist released the kind soul, stroking his magnificent beard in thought. "So... these... Slivers... what do they look like?" While he failed to follow the proper protocols, it could be excused, as he was thinking deep, dwarvenly thoughts.
"Are- are you kidding me?!" the kind soul asked, gesturing in the general direction of the nearby abominations, "THOSE are Slivers! How can you not know that!?!"
Urist clapped him on the back, shaking a few teeth loose and sending his friend crashing to the ground, "Thank you my friend! I shall now set off on an epic quest to save the world from these 'Sliver' things!" With that, he hefted Shoveley over his shoulder and set off perpendicular to the setting sun.
Walking away into the sunset was too overdone. Urist McDwarvenson was a trend setter!
--- --- --- --- ---
True to the age old pattern of quests, Urist was soon joined by a number of souls, all seeking to end the threat to the planet by slaying the Slivers.
And making booze, though no one else seemed to talk about it much. At least they did everything he told them to do. Probably due to his natural charisma, or perhaps his ability cave in the skulls of the Slivers that tried to attack them.
Either way, they listened to him.
It was after months of adventuring and slaughtering Slivers, which Urist was slowly beginning to find adorable, that their plucky band of adventurers found the Sliver's nest, guarded by their fiercest forms, with numbers greater than had ever been seen before. Still, despit ethe monstrosities before them they were tied together by bonds forged in battle, and had grown stronger with each encounter. They were ready to stealithy sneak into the nest, and slay the Queen, stopping the Slivers' reign of terror over their people.
Heedless of the numerous advantages of this plan, Urist charged in without a thought, mainly because he wanted the quest to be over so he could be to brewing, but they loyally followed him in spite of the danger, killing the creatures before they were even aware of them. They followed him into the depths of the next, hundreds of Slivers scurrying after them, seeking the slay the intruders before they could enter the inner sanctum.
Their charge was brought to a halt, when Urist suddenly stopped, transfixed by the sight before him.
It was a truly massive Sliver, towering over them, its deep purple body contrasting with the bright yellow scythes on its arms, highlighting their deadly sharpness. It head turned to face them, its monstrou mouth openign to let out an unholy screech. The entire hive was soon filled with the chittering of Slivers, as they surged forwards to protect their queen. More slivers poured from its loins, ready to slay the intruders even moments after birth.
As Urist's eyes stared at the monstrous creature before him, constantly spawning new horrors to slay him and his companions, he had an epiphany.
This was the perfect ingredient for booze.
Urist leapt at the beast, taking it down with a single, mighty tackle. His companions fought the endless tide of lesser creatures as he sought to subdue their queen. So great was his lust for alcohol, that the beast had no time to react before Urist had pinned it and begun to chain it up. All around him, his companions cheered, holding of her reinforcements as he imprisoned the wretched beast that had spawned their doom. He wrestled it for hours, until the flood of Slivers slowed to a trickled, and finally stopped.With a booming roar, the beast was captured, with Urist sitting atop it, grinning like a king.
Though many desired to slay the creature, lest it rally its scattered forces, Urist commanded them to stay there hands, for he had a much greater plan in mind for the Queen.
--- --- --- --- ---
Rule One for Brewing: Anything can be turned into Booze. ANYTHING.
This was the creed of the Dwarves. If you couldn't make booze, you obviously weren't trying hard enough. It was with this zealous conviction that Urist set out to brew the perfect drink using the perfect ingredient. Examining his brewing equipment the way a jeweler would examine a fine diamond, Urist ensured the quality, and more importantly, the durability of his gear.
Satisfied with the results, Urist began his experiments in earnest, taking care to keep the Queen in good condition, lest her endless supply of fresh ingredient be interrupted. Once she was secured, he set out to
He tried slicing. he tried dicing. He tried cutting, smashing, hammering, stomping, crushing, smushing, and even blending. Ever concievable method of reducing Slivers to sludge was tried, time and time again, until he had the method of perparation down to science. This same level of preparations was spread over each stage, complete with notes and formulas, until after months of tireless effort and testing, Urist had the final results.
Urist had created the Ultimate Brew.
He called it...
Uristdraught!
--- --- --- --- ---
Urist joyfully displayed his results
Sadly, unlike dwarves, most other species lack the five additional livers to prevent alcohol poisoning. Numerous people, including a number of his companions, succumbed to alcohol poisoning or comas. Other went stark raving mad within moments of uristdraught touching their lips.
And those proved to be only mild reactions to the brew.
Urist shook his head sorrowfully. Clearly, these people lacked an appreciation for a fine drink. As Urist reflected on their poor taste, he realized that such a bounty could only be appreciated by his own kind, and he was struck with an incurable homesickness, which even the heartiest of brews could not extinguish.
So Urist set out, with his Sliver and brewing equipment, seeking to return to his home. He quested near and far, back and forth, hither and yon, and all sorts of other strange directions, until he once again found the rift that had taken him to this twisted
Sadly, it was sitting in the middle of the air.
Urist, like most dwarves, had a slight fear of heights, but the urge to reutn home was strong, and steeled his will. Reaching deep inside himself, Urist drew upon reserves of strength, and set out to face the greatest terror in all of dwarven history.
He jumped.
A whole three and a half inches off the ground.
Landing seconds later, he hastily consumed some of his patent pending Uristdraught, trying to shake off his near brush with death. After several more drinks, he was able to calmly assess what had happened without curling up into a ball and crying.
He had jumped, this much was true, but it was not nearly enough. He would ahve to get higher.
Immediately, Urist determined there were two ways he could accomplish this.
Put his legs through a horrifying training program, that would take decades to fully complete so he could jump fifty feet in the air while carrying the sliver queen and all of his brewing equipment, or build a catapult.
So, after several weeks of fruitless training, Urist built a catapult and launched himself into the portal, sporting the beefiest set of calves a dwarf had ever had.
--- --- --- --- ---
In traditional dwarven fashion, Urist arrived with an explosion, triggering a massive collapse as the structural integrity of the tunnel was destroyed, bringing the entire fortress down around him.
Urist sighed in contentment. he was finally home.
Ignoring the cries of "Oh the dwarfmanity!" and the sobs of pain, he strode confidently forward, handing out sample of Uristdraught to the elderly and injured alike. Being dwarves, they put all issues aside the instant a cold brew was in their hands, and chugged it.
Tears flowed down the faces of many a dwaf that day, rtears of joy at the wonderful drink Urist McDwarfenson had brought to them, like a Messianic figure out of legend. With their new drink in hand, they set about rebuilding their home, with the Sliver Queen nestled securely in the center, where she could birth the vital ingredient of Uristdraught in peace for all eternity.
And the rest of the world went ignorant of the deadly threat the dwarves had brought down upon them, all for the sake of alcohol.
Urist McDwarvenson was not the sanest of dwarves. Not by a long shot. Granted, he had all of the finest dwarvenly qualities. he could slay goblins, drink enough to kill a herd of elephants, and juggle cats better than anyone. He lacked all sense of self preservation, like many of his brethren, but somehow, he took it one step further than most. For example, most dwarves, after being disemboweled by the giant kitty they found in the jungle, would seek medical attention, run away, or at least die.
Not Urist, he immediately thought the striped beast would be a wonderful pet, and tried his best to drag it home. Sadly, for many of his companions, this did not end well, as it quickly maimed and killed its way back into the wild.
Sadly, it took a few more times before Urist began to think that maybe it didn't want to live with him, and a few more after that before he stopped trying.
Mostly.
Needless to say, after that fiasco, Urist was left to his own devices. And by 'left to his own devices,' we mean that he was locked up in the deepest parts of the fortress, forced to dig for all eternity.
Not that he didn't break out for a drink now and again, or everyday. Twice, maybe three times. Drinking is an essential part of being a dwarf after all, and never let it be said that Urist McDwarvenson was not the pinnacle of dwarvenly virtue.
Anyways, where were we? Ah yes, Urist was condemned to an eternity of digging, forever expanding their glorious fortress, (barring booze breaks.) He was quite skilled at digging, ever since he won that digging contest back in dwarf kindergarten, and got Shoveley*, he bestest friend in the whole world.
So urist dug, and dug, and dug, and continued digging for what would easily fill an entire trilogy of books, all while happily drinking whatever alcohol he could acquire and thinking fondly of the cat he never managed to get. Finally, it what would be the climax of the trilogy, Urist dug deeper than any dwarf had ever dug before. Ignoring the various signs** that would have deterred a slightly more cautious or sensible dwarf, but Urist pressed on, until he unearthed a giant room.
It was wreathed in iridescent colors, and the walls themselves seemed to pulse with unearthly energy. As he paused to study the sight before him, Urist could hear the faintest sounds of singing, as if a choir of angels were hidden within.
At first, he thought the room was a sign of alcohol withdrawal, and quickly downed another bottle to stave off the dreaded disease, but when the room remained, he explored it, partly out of curiosity, but mainly because he had finished off his last easily accessible bottle.
Sadly, his quest for more alcohol was abruptly halted, as the light of the room surged, and consumed him, transporting him to a realm beyond his ability to comprehend.
*Note to the readers: Shoveley is not, as you might expect, a shovel. He is a pickaxe. Please remember that Urist, like most dwarves, was drinking before he could walk, and was not too skilled with naming things. This is important to remember later. Trust me.
**Signs in this case come in the form of giant, carnivorous badgers. Like, really, REALLY big badgers.
--- --- --- --- ---
It didn't take long for Urist to realize that he was in Hell, for one simple reason.
There was no alcohol.
He looked high, he looked low, and looted a number of stockpiles, all for naught. There was not a drop of booze, quality or otherwise to be found anywhere in this god forsaken realm.
Oh, and there were horrifying insectiod abominations that eviscerated anything they saw on sight, but mostly, it was the lack of alcohol that confirmed his damnation.
Still, Urist was nothing if not an optimist. If Hell lack booze, then he would MAKE booze, the devil take him if he didn't.
Urist reviewed the recipes for brewing the various libations, and quickly realized that while Axey* was a wonderful companion, alongside Armory** and Helmety***, and of course Loinclothy****, none of them were particularly useful
So Urist set out to draft one of the unfortunate denizens of Hell to help him.
* A spear
** A shield
*** A pair of glasses. Urist is classy like that.
**** Surprisingly, a loincloth
--- --- --- --- ---
Urist knew the best way to acquire a companion was to set out on an epic quest. Questing drew all sorts of interesting folk around you, like flies to honey, and then you could just choose the one you wanted.
"Knave, tell me, what evil plagues this land?" Urist inquired, politely grappling and throttling the target of his inquiry.
"Eeeargh!!!" was the response, irritating Urist with his rudeness, though to be fair, he was missing several vital organs. Still, politeness is important to have, especially when death is imminent.
Not to be deterred by the rudeness of others, Urist turned to another nearby fellow."You there! What evil plagues this land?!" Urist said, once again grappling and throttling them.
"Are you mad?!" he shouted, eyes blazing with barely contained rage and dispair, "The Slivers! They consume everything in their path, destroy entire cities, eat the flesh of our children! What evil could be greater than that?!"
Urist released the kind soul, stroking his magnificent beard in thought. "So... these... Slivers... what do they look like?" While he failed to follow the proper protocols, it could be excused, as he was thinking deep, dwarvenly thoughts.
"Are- are you kidding me?!" the kind soul asked, gesturing in the general direction of the nearby abominations, "THOSE are Slivers! How can you not know that!?!"
Urist clapped him on the back, shaking a few teeth loose and sending his friend crashing to the ground, "Thank you my friend! I shall now set off on an epic quest to save the world from these 'Sliver' things!" With that, he hefted Shoveley over his shoulder and set off perpendicular to the setting sun.
Walking away into the sunset was too overdone. Urist McDwarvenson was a trend setter!
--- --- --- --- ---
True to the age old pattern of quests, Urist was soon joined by a number of souls, all seeking to end the threat to the planet by slaying the Slivers.
And making booze, though no one else seemed to talk about it much. At least they did everything he told them to do. Probably due to his natural charisma, or perhaps his ability cave in the skulls of the Slivers that tried to attack them.
Either way, they listened to him.
It was after months of adventuring and slaughtering Slivers, which Urist was slowly beginning to find adorable, that their plucky band of adventurers found the Sliver's nest, guarded by their fiercest forms, with numbers greater than had ever been seen before. Still, despit ethe monstrosities before them they were tied together by bonds forged in battle, and had grown stronger with each encounter. They were ready to stealithy sneak into the nest, and slay the Queen, stopping the Slivers' reign of terror over their people.
Heedless of the numerous advantages of this plan, Urist charged in without a thought, mainly because he wanted the quest to be over so he could be to brewing, but they loyally followed him in spite of the danger, killing the creatures before they were even aware of them. They followed him into the depths of the next, hundreds of Slivers scurrying after them, seeking the slay the intruders before they could enter the inner sanctum.
Their charge was brought to a halt, when Urist suddenly stopped, transfixed by the sight before him.
It was a truly massive Sliver, towering over them, its deep purple body contrasting with the bright yellow scythes on its arms, highlighting their deadly sharpness. It head turned to face them, its monstrou mouth openign to let out an unholy screech. The entire hive was soon filled with the chittering of Slivers, as they surged forwards to protect their queen. More slivers poured from its loins, ready to slay the intruders even moments after birth.
As Urist's eyes stared at the monstrous creature before him, constantly spawning new horrors to slay him and his companions, he had an epiphany.
This was the perfect ingredient for booze.
Urist leapt at the beast, taking it down with a single, mighty tackle. His companions fought the endless tide of lesser creatures as he sought to subdue their queen. So great was his lust for alcohol, that the beast had no time to react before Urist had pinned it and begun to chain it up. All around him, his companions cheered, holding of her reinforcements as he imprisoned the wretched beast that had spawned their doom. He wrestled it for hours, until the flood of Slivers slowed to a trickled, and finally stopped.With a booming roar, the beast was captured, with Urist sitting atop it, grinning like a king.
Though many desired to slay the creature, lest it rally its scattered forces, Urist commanded them to stay there hands, for he had a much greater plan in mind for the Queen.
--- --- --- --- ---
Rule One for Brewing: Anything can be turned into Booze. ANYTHING.
This was the creed of the Dwarves. If you couldn't make booze, you obviously weren't trying hard enough. It was with this zealous conviction that Urist set out to brew the perfect drink using the perfect ingredient. Examining his brewing equipment the way a jeweler would examine a fine diamond, Urist ensured the quality, and more importantly, the durability of his gear.
Satisfied with the results, Urist began his experiments in earnest, taking care to keep the Queen in good condition, lest her endless supply of fresh ingredient be interrupted. Once she was secured, he set out to
He tried slicing. he tried dicing. He tried cutting, smashing, hammering, stomping, crushing, smushing, and even blending. Ever concievable method of reducing Slivers to sludge was tried, time and time again, until he had the method of perparation down to science. This same level of preparations was spread over each stage, complete with notes and formulas, until after months of tireless effort and testing, Urist had the final results.
Urist had created the Ultimate Brew.
He called it...
Uristdraught!
--- --- --- --- ---
Urist joyfully displayed his results
Sadly, unlike dwarves, most other species lack the five additional livers to prevent alcohol poisoning. Numerous people, including a number of his companions, succumbed to alcohol poisoning or comas. Other went stark raving mad within moments of uristdraught touching their lips.
And those proved to be only mild reactions to the brew.
Urist shook his head sorrowfully. Clearly, these people lacked an appreciation for a fine drink. As Urist reflected on their poor taste, he realized that such a bounty could only be appreciated by his own kind, and he was struck with an incurable homesickness, which even the heartiest of brews could not extinguish.
So Urist set out, with his Sliver and brewing equipment, seeking to return to his home. He quested near and far, back and forth, hither and yon, and all sorts of other strange directions, until he once again found the rift that had taken him to this twisted
Sadly, it was sitting in the middle of the air.
Urist, like most dwarves, had a slight fear of heights, but the urge to reutn home was strong, and steeled his will. Reaching deep inside himself, Urist drew upon reserves of strength, and set out to face the greatest terror in all of dwarven history.
He jumped.
A whole three and a half inches off the ground.
Landing seconds later, he hastily consumed some of his patent pending Uristdraught, trying to shake off his near brush with death. After several more drinks, he was able to calmly assess what had happened without curling up into a ball and crying.
He had jumped, this much was true, but it was not nearly enough. He would ahve to get higher.
Immediately, Urist determined there were two ways he could accomplish this.
Put his legs through a horrifying training program, that would take decades to fully complete so he could jump fifty feet in the air while carrying the sliver queen and all of his brewing equipment, or build a catapult.
So, after several weeks of fruitless training, Urist built a catapult and launched himself into the portal, sporting the beefiest set of calves a dwarf had ever had.
--- --- --- --- ---
In traditional dwarven fashion, Urist arrived with an explosion, triggering a massive collapse as the structural integrity of the tunnel was destroyed, bringing the entire fortress down around him.
Urist sighed in contentment. he was finally home.
Ignoring the cries of "Oh the dwarfmanity!" and the sobs of pain, he strode confidently forward, handing out sample of Uristdraught to the elderly and injured alike. Being dwarves, they put all issues aside the instant a cold brew was in their hands, and chugged it.
Tears flowed down the faces of many a dwaf that day, rtears of joy at the wonderful drink Urist McDwarfenson had brought to them, like a Messianic figure out of legend. With their new drink in hand, they set about rebuilding their home, with the Sliver Queen nestled securely in the center, where she could birth the vital ingredient of Uristdraught in peace for all eternity.
And the rest of the world went ignorant of the deadly threat the dwarves had brought down upon them, all for the sake of alcohol.
