Weighed In Stone

         The knight taps a fist to his chestplate. "I swear it will be done." There's tense silence as the king waits to answer. Sweat drips down Sir Teristol's chin, his eyes fixed on an arbitrary plate of the tiled ground. He recalls the tales well; gold tiles, said to be solid metal, each worth more than everything in Teri's pack.
         "It is not often we receive visitors demanding to help us. Even stranger that a vir would come to these halls."
         Teri searches for the words to fill the following quiet. "I...have need for coin, m'lord. I can no longer be picky."
         "So your loyalty is to coin alone?" The stocky king stands, rough beard sliding and draping across his front. He could be nude of all garments and still have a curtain of earthy red to keep him decent. The intricate braids a sign of status, the ostentatious jewelry in the braids a sign of wealth. "You have no bonds to anyone then?"
         The king sounds almost angry, and Teri finds himself very hot under the collar. Before he can reply again though, the dwarven king erupts into laughter, his body shaking and his beard swinging. The gathering around them, nobles and councilors, merchants and smiths, break into joyous sound with him. "It is lucky for you coin is what we have. You will do this for me then. You will rid us of this gorgon."
         The laughter turns to cheering as Teri stands, nodding. "The gorgon's head or mine, King Hrondl." He bows--a sign of respect mostly foreign to the dwarves--and takes his leave.
         Out of the grand hall and into the bright corridors of the grandest gem under the ridges. So the dwarves would claim, anyway. Objectively, everything is sparkly, at least. In Olvven, money is power. The halls are tiled in gold, the commons are inlaid with silver, the bars embedded with gemstones. Bars, as well pubs, mead halls, alehouses, and wineries, all of which either sell or make liquor. Often times, both. Trade is rich within the capitol as well, though they export little and import much. Unlike what people believe of the dwarves, smithing isn't solely for practical use. It's also a skill of finesse and form. A jeweled brooch is as worthy of craft as a fine blade.
         Teri's walk is interrupted by a sudden upturning of reality. There's a clatter of dishes and a surprised "oof" from below. Teri is quick to apologize and help the dwarf to his feet, after removing himself from atop the mountain-dweller.
         "Make nothing of it, friend. I am the one who should have watched where he was going."
         The knight has none of it. "Truly, sire, it is not such."
         The dwarf clears his throat, looking around. "You...must be mistaken. You are the knight here, and you address me with titles?"
         "Ah, yes. I was taught that commoners should not revere nobles and knights, but that we are there to serve them." Teri makes a small bow.
         The dwarf eyes this strange person with heavy scrutiny. After some time, he poses his question; "How do you know I'm not a noble?"
         At this, Teri has to laugh. "Well, one, you stopped to talk to me. The nobles call the guards when I bump into them. And they do not carry their own wares," he finalizes, bending to pick up one of the plates. Smooth, polished metal, with carvings of stylized dwarves on the edge. He hands it back. "I am Ser Teristol, though Teri is preferred."
         "Alright. Hren." The Dwarf offers his hand, though Teri does not take it, bowing his head instead. "You're an odd one, that's true. You water-born are interesting folk, I'll admit."
         "Oh, I'm not so typical of my own people. It's why I wander the lands now."
         "Well. I'll let you get back to your business. I hear you're planning on killing the gorgon. If that goes well, find me at High Noon. A tavern downtown."
         Teri nods and the two part ways.

         There's no more excitement as Teri leaves the city proper, descending into the darkness of the mines and caverns below. As the story goes, it beset upon several miners one evening--how the dwarves ever know what time it is baffles Teri--and has stuck around since. And when Teri's hand brushes something besides a wall in the near-pitch dark cave, he knows to be on the right track. His hands work over the statue until he finds the face, frozen in horror.
         "Ssso you've found my collection, outsider."
         Teri smirks. "You give us reptiles a bad name with your lisp, creature."
         "Yesss, you do sssmell familiarly different. What do they call you?"
         "If they are dwarves, I would be weir. If they are friends, I am Teristol." Teri waits a beat, then spins, drawing his blade and drawing blood. The gorgon screeches and squirms away, leading deeper into its adopted home.
         "You are...are a sssmart one. Not easssy prey like the rock people."
         "You'll find I am not prey at all, creature." Teri willingly slips into the deeper caves, keeping his eyes up.
         "I am the ssstone-death. The nail-and-claw killer. If I can't feassst on your bonesss, I will sssee you asss another warning to the ssstocky, sssmelly thingsss above." The gorgon slithers about on legs and body, but with a silence that betrays neither its weight nor presence.
         "And yet," Teri teases, stabbing his sword down onto a clawed leg. The gorgon screams, tugging away and losing two digits. "And yet you run. What do you fear?"
         "I fear nothing!" The gorgon draws itself up, using a wounded foot to grasp Teri's neck. "But a gaze and you are dead." Teri blinks several times, caught by the beast.
         "Let me tell you a story," he says calmly, to the gorgon's surprise. "They say there is an unholy monster, the offspring of the smoke of hell, the lizards that crawl, and the snakes that worm. To look upon it is to beg for death. To be looked upon is to receive it. But itself is blind. That's where our similarities start." All that time he speaks, the creature is stunned still, as though turned statue itself. The smile returns to Teri's smug face as he impales the gorgon with his sword. "I was born, they tell me, with a disease. By the time the other children could speak for the first time, I was barely moving. Ruined, they called me, for how weak my body was. How useless my eyes." The sword is twisted, tearing organs from their places as the creature gasps, coughing up blood. "You think yourself a cold killer, but nothing is as chilling as death itself. So tell me, how does it feel?"
         The question must be rhetorical, as the last sound the gorgon makes is a final breath. Teri pulls the talons from his neck. A promise is a promise, and a knight must uphold honor.

          The doors to the grand hall burst open, a pair of guards escorting a very important person. A medic is hurriedly prodding him and asking questions, but he will not be stopped. Plenty of the blood is not his anyway. A burlap sack from one hand is tossed before the council.
         "I swore to you, King of the Gleaming Gem. One lizard's head." As one of the guards rushes to open it, Teri turns to leave.
         "Do you not want your gold, weir?" The king stands, calling out to the departing lizard.
         "Maybe it is best to have you hold onto it for a day. I promised someone I would go out drinking."
         The king laughs, and with him the entire room. Teristol, a water-born, a bava and a vir, an unseer, at that moment was more dwarf than he had any right to be.