THE MYSTIC MUG

Chapter 1: Hearth & Home

Durgan had spent his entire life running. No, no. Not on his feet.

Are you kidding? That would be crazy. Durgan was a stout and sturdy fellow who enjoyed keeping his spirits high by filling his stomach, and he had the beginnings of a gut to prove it.

He ran more in the metaphorical sense: from, away, and sometimes toward.

Life felt too big and, at the same time, not quite big enough. He could forget all his troubles, though, if he stayed distracted. At first, he focused all his longings on the future, making big plans that the elders warned he'd never be able to carry out. He'd been born to a family of dwarven restauranteurs, which meant he would one day don an apron and serve up roasted pheasant to weary travelers that happened through his bustling mountain town.

But he didn't want to be the one delivering plates and wiping down tables; Durgan longed to be the kind they were serving—to be an adventurer.

He would leave his mark on the world by doing something grand, something the bards could croon about for centuries to come.

But dwarves were traditionalists. A child always followed in his family's footsteps before him, and Durgan's path, it seemed, led straight to the kitchen.

Okay, the kitchen wasn’t the worst place to be. But he'd much rather eat food than prepare or deliver it.

And so it was at the tender age of ten that he decided that he would one day need to leave his clan and venture into the great, wide world. Ten is exceptionally young for anyone to be making such big decisions—but especially for a long-lived dwarf. Durgan had barely mastered basic beard maintenance by that age, and yet, already, he knew he was meant to break the mold that had been thrust upon him by centuries of well-meaning ancestors.

So at ten, it was decided. Privately, yes. But still decided, nonetheless.

Durgan’s next decade was spent planning, waiting, and readying himself for the inevitable goodbyes. When each word could be the last you ever spoke to your parents, brothers, cousins, and neighbors, every single statement ended with an exclamation mark.

No whispered reassurances of love. No, these were sentiments Durgan needed to shout and often did. The rest of the time, he stayed quiet and thoughtful, not wanting to waste his precious words by giving voice to the wrong ones.

He loved his family, his clan, and even his life as it currently lay folded out before him, but Durgan knew none of these things were for him. At least not forever.

Life was a very long time, and his was just getting started. So Durgan waited and waited some more.

He'd made it halfway through his twenties by the time he finally got his chance to embark upon a new path. Ah, that fateful evening so many years ago. He could still remember it like it had happened yesterday—this morning, even.

Spring had just started to take bloom, and a fragrant wind ripped through the village streets as a wary group of adventurers stumbled into his family's restaurant, the Perky Plate. They sat for a long time but ordered nothing to eat, as they instead bemoaned the loss of a brother in arms.

"Oh, our beloved Seamus," they cried, spilling more water with their tears than they managed to drink from their cups. "Oh, Seamus, Seamus, Seamus… He's with the gods now."

Their shouted sobs unsettled the other patrons, but they excited Durgan. Not because he was cruel but rather because he recognized the opportunity.

It was no challenge for him to make sure he was the one to tend to their table. Dwarves preferred peace… until they didn't. And the Perky Plate was meant to be a place of rest and revelry, not a makeshift funeral parlor.

When it was clear the anguished adventurers would not be ordering any entrees, their eager young waiter brought them a basket of fried potatoes as a friendly offering. "A gift to soothe your sorrows," he said with a curt nod before leaving them to their misery.

When they finished that first basket, Durgan brought another. "Tell me about this Seamus of yours," he whispered with one kindly expression and two very open ears.

And they were quick to unburden themselves by sharing tales of their fallen party member. Seamus had been a paladin—a holy warrior. He died doing what he believed in most: saving a small, impoverished village from a rather large and enraged dragon. It had been an honor to serve alongside him for the time that they'd been able, the group chorused.

This fervor grabbed tight to Durgan's craving and absolutely refused to let go. Better to die for a reason than to live for none at all. And so when the adventuring group finally left the restaurant that night, he snuck after them, only taking the quickest of glances back toward the only home and family he'd ever known.

He’d been preparing himself for this moment for such a long time already.

Durgan knew that, once he left, he could never come back. This made him sad, but he did not waiver. Each step he took was deliberate, chosen, right.

He didn't reveal himself to the travelers until they journeyed more than an hour past the boundaries of his hometown.

"Ho there!" he called when he felt ready, jogging up when the others had begun to set up camp in a lush meadow just outside a haggard forest.

"Are you the boy from the restaurant?" A human beast master squinted at him through the encroaching darkness as she ran her fingers through the smooth fur of her ursine companion. She lacked the night vision enjoyed by so many other races, including his own, but still, she recognized him. That was a good sign, indeed.

"I am. And I am also your new paladin. If you will have me."

She quirked an eyebrow at this. "What experience do you have?"

"None, but I'm a fast learner and want this. I want this so much it hurts." He raised his fist to his chest and pounded on it twice. "Hurts right here."

"Then you should see an alchemist or a cleric," the human woman snorted. "We aren't looking to replace Seamus, especially not with someone so green."

Durgan frowned. He was not green at all. In fact, everything about him was red—hair, beard, cheeks, even the tunic he wore now. Green was not a word he'd ever use to describe himself, so why did it feel like such an insult coming from this stranger’s lips?

"Aw, just let him come. Either he'll figure things out along the way, or he'll get himself killed by the next monster. He might distract it long enough so that the rest of us can get away." This came from an infernal, though Durgan could not tell what role he served in the party. In truth, the assignments meant little to him. He didn't know enough to care. What really mattered was the adventure.

"He was kind to us. I say we let him come," the final party member declared. Judging from the gnarled staff he held clenched before him, he was also a human and likely a magic-user.

"Well, I say no," the woman doubled down, even stomping her foot in the grass. The battle-bear beside her bared its teeth but made no move to surrender its spot at its master's side.

"That still leaves you outvoted, Inara," the infernal said with a grin as he strode toward Durgan, a long-fingered hand extended in greeting. "You're a bit smaller than our last paladin. We'll have to find you some new armor, but I'd bet you're strong enough to wield Seamus's maul. My name’s Calsyn, by the way. What’s yours?"

A bright and enormous smile unfurled behind Durgan's beard as he finally introduced himself to his new family. "Durgan Stoutbarrel at your service."

“If you’re to be a paladin, you’ll need to swear an oath. What do you stand for?” the human man asked abruptly.

“I stand for whoever and whatever needs someone to stand for them. And I do so firmly,” he answered without wavering.

That was the start of the next forty years of Durgan's life. And in that time, he ran toward many things: bounties, monsters, villagers in need—but more than anything—toward adventure itself.

He was happy almost always. The single black mark on those shining days of glory came at their bitter end—and with such shocking symmetry it almost felt as if the gods were mocking him intentionally.

The first death in their party had made space for Durgan to join, and the second announced his time to leave. Like Seamus, Calsyn had also died doing what he loved most, but the infernal’s demise left a gaping wound so wide that the others didn’t even dare try to fill it.

Durgan tried to focus on the good times, and not that one traumatic memory that threatened to spoil it all. Those first forty years traveling with the others, Durgan had achieved everything he'd ever wanted for himself, and he’d wished it could go on forever.

But the humans in his party grew old and weak. They already struggled to accept even the gentlest of quests, and losing Calsyn ultimately made their continued travels impossible.

And so they retired, vowing to live out the rest of their days peacefully.

Besotted by grief and still relatively young and spry, Durgan attempted to soldier on—a party of one. But nobody wanted to entrust their bounties to a single adventurer, which unfortunately meant it was time for Durgan to retire, too.

He couldn't return to his clan, not after abandoning them so many years before. Dwarves were not meant to break tradition, and Durgan had done that in a big way. He hardly even spoke to other dwarves on his travels for fear of their judgment.

But he was a likable chap; he won Inara over despite her initial protestations when he asked to join the party. Just as he won everyone over, it didn't even take long to do so, either. He was just such a merry person, feeling blessed beyond reason that he could choose the life he wanted for himself. And that particular brand of ecstasy proved contagious.

He probably should have been a bard, but he'd taken the party's appearance at the Perky Plate that night as fate's intervention. They had lost a paladin, and so a paladin they would have.

What did Durgan believe in? What greater purpose did he serve? He’d been asked that question right at the very start, and he’d spent years trying to find a better answer than the first one that came to him.

What did Durgan stand for?

Happiness, maybe. Or freedom. A person's right to choose their own path, even when it made no sense to others.

It made a strange creed for a paladin, but often, others were too enamored of his enthusiasm to even bother with such inquiries. Women loved him especially.

There was rarely a settlement his party entered that did not have a buxom young maiden waiting to ingratiate herself with him. But Durgan never desired their private company. As public companions with whom he could drink and exchange stories? Absolutely. But as a partner with which to pass the night? The very thought turned his stomach.

Durgan spent nights alone with other, more palatable thoughts and was happy that way for nearly half a century.

Some men need others, but some are enough unto themselves. Durgan belonged to the second camp… until very suddenly he didn't.

Two singular days changed Durgan Stoutbarrel’s life for the better: the first was when he met his future party at the Perky Plate, and the second was when he found the half-giant, Pat.

Briarhaven was not the kind of town one remembered long after they'd left it. At least that's what Durgan suspected as truth, for he never once ventured past its borders once he'd entered them.

Back then, he'd still believed that he could find a new party and embark on a new adventure. Eventually, the quest givers would realize that his many years of experience were more valuable than those that came from hiring a large but freshly minted party. He was headed to Nexara from the hinterlands south when he happened upon the sleepy little village.

It seemed as good a place as any to fill his stomach, rest his head, and reinforce his weapons. He started with the food at a halfling bakery near the town square. After eating his fill, he descended the cobblestone streets toward the blacksmith.

Durgan could still hear the steady drum of that hammer pounding out beat after beat as he approached. It was just one of those things that had imprinted itself in his mind. The sounds declared themselves important and refused to be relegated to memory.

That beat was alive and constant. It was the sound of his heart.

The first thing he saw upon entering the smithy was a big blond head bedecked in curls. That soft halo reminded him of the scattered celestials he'd met on his journeys. The curls had an otherworldly beauty that felt almost like magic.

He liked other-worlders; the dearly departed Calsyn had come from the ethereal plane, and in a way, this blond blacksmith reminded him of his lost companion. It was as if they’d already, somehow, become well acquainted, perhaps in another life.

Was such a thing even possible?

Durgan didn’t know, and he couldn’t find out unless he first said hello.

"Ho there!” he called in greeting, eager to see the young lass to whom these flowing locks belonged. “I was hoping you could help tend to my maul.”

"Oh, hello! Hi! Yes, I am happy to be of service, my good sir," a deep, startled voice boomed back, reminding Durgan of the hammer's echo. And then the speaker stood, rising and rising until the dwarf was sure the other man’s head would burst through the ceiling.

Suddenly, Durgan knew why the maidens had never appealed to him. It was because he'd been waiting for someone else, someone very specific. He'd always been waiting, though he'd failed to realize it until now. His heart belonged to this golden-haired stranger.

"Call me Durgan," he slurred because suddenly words were hard to form. His lips felt soft and pliable, ready for kisses, but not strong enough to say and do everything he wanted—needed—to say and do at that moment.

"My name is Pat." The large man moved toward him, hand extended in greeting. He was so much larger than Durgan that there was no question of his parentage. This man—this Pat—came from giants. Blessed be!

Durgan stepped forward, fully prepared to take the hand on offer, but then his body acted of its own accord. Instead of meeting Pat's hand with his own, Durgan brushed his cheek against the other man's palm like a contented kitty cat.

"Oh." Pat didn't move.

Neither did Durgan.

They stood like that forever, but also not nearly long enough.

"Your maul?" Pat finally prompted with soft, curious words, the spoken version of those enchanting curls.

Durgan shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Oh, then what does matter? Durgan, was it?"

"Let me buy you dinner," he blurted, then hid his face in Pat's massive palm, turning toward him and inhaling the scent of the laborer's skin with a deep, greedy gulp.

"Oh, okay," Pat answered, finally withdrawing his hand and returning it stiffly to his side.

An icy chill rushed through the floor, threatening to shatter Durgan into a million little pieces. Now that he had felt Pat's warmth, he never wanted to be parted from it again.

"I think I love you," he murmured, then brought a hand up to smooth his beard so Pat could see the full effect of his earnest smile.

"Okay," Pat answered, smiling back.

And then they went to the first dinner of many more to come. In fact, the two men never dined apart for even a single night all the rest of their lives.

Because it was at this exact moment that Durgan knew: He would never run again.