Fizzwick Scalebottom's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Three days without a drink, and Fizzwick's claws would not stay still. He sat at the keg table in the tavern hall. His empty hands drummed the wood. His mouth felt dry and wrong. Aldric had said win the tournament sober, and they would talk about the mushroom mead. But sober meant hours with nothing to hold. The bar stood across the room, lined with bottles and tankards. Fizzwick's eyes kept sliding toward it. His tail already pointed that way. He stood. He told himself he would only look. His long legs carried him past the mossy stools to the weathered bar. Bottles caught the lamplight. A cool tap waited under his claw. One sip would settle his hands. One sip, and no one would know. A squeak stopped him. On the bar sat a small gray mouse in a tiny cloak. A glowing charm hung at its chest. It had climbed out of a crack in the wood. It stared up at the huge dragon with bright, round eyes, unafraid. The mouse grabbed a stray hazelnut. It could not crack the shell. It shoved the nut toward Fizzwick and squeaked again, plain as a request. Fizzwick blinked. He looked at the tap, then at the mouse. His claws itched for something to do. He picked up the nut. He pressed it between two claws until the shell split clean. The mouse cheered and nibbled the meat. Something loosened in Fizzwick's chest. His hands had a task. He found another nut and cracked it. Then another. The mouse gathered the pieces and carried them back toward its crack. It returned for more. Each trip pulled Fizzwick further from the bottles behind him. He worked all evening. When the nuts ran out, he shredded old cloth for the mouse's nest. When that was done, he whittled a splinter of keg wood into a tiny spoon. The mouse tested it and squeaked its thanks. Fizzwick's mouth was busy now too, humming low as he worked. He had not thought of the tap in an hour. By the time the lamps burned down, the mouse slept in its crack, full and warm. Fizzwick sat back. His hands were tired, not shaking. The bar still glowed across the room. He looked at it and felt nothing pull. Aldric came through from the storehouse and stopped. He saw the pile of split shells, the whittled spoon, the sleeping mouse. He saw Fizzwick's untouched place at the bar. The dwarf said nothing, but his mouth tugged sideways. He gave one short nod and went back through the door. Fizzwick had beaten the taproom for one night. He knew now what his idle hands needed. But the tournament drew closer, and legendary drinkers would soon fill this hall. Cracking nuts would not carry him through a contest built on drinking.