Authors note.
My good friend Chunderpants and I have shared many adventures and for your pleasure he has asked me to put pen to paper on his behalf, as his writing skills are not the greatest in the world. As he says “anyone who thinks the pen is mightier than the sword wants to just try it matey”.
A word of caution to the reader; being dwarfs we are deeply lovable and emotional people – especially after a few bevies – and as such we often find ourselves slipping into the “vernacular”, by which I mean we will sometimes use a few “choice” swear words. I have attempted to tone down my friends use of these but perhaps under age reading isn’t such a good thing, especially if you are being brought up right if you catch my drift.

And so without further ado, over to Chunderpants:

This is my tale of derring-do and triumph despite overwhelming odds. You may think this a fanciful yarn that is completely made up but let me tell you that I, Chunderpants have never in my 113 years told an untruth and I’ll gut the first person who say’s so. So if you’re sitting comfortably, or even if your not, I’m going to start. So hold your breath and grasp your personals in fear…

One day…..hmmm why is it that stories always start with one day? I mean of course it was “one day”! If it was another day then I would have said so – something like “yesterday…” or “last Tuesday…”. Also, saying “one day” gives the listener or reader no idea as to when the story actually took place an immediately allows them to feel that it may be fictitious.

Well let me tell you this. I, Chunderpants, have never told a lie in all my 103 years. Odin drown me in your armpit sweat if I speak falsely. But I digress and so on with the story.

[Ahem]….on a typical morning last month I awoke with a start. My head pounding like Thor’s missus on a promise and bleary eyed I fell out of my bunk, knocking over the (rather full) bed pan, and crawled on my hands and knees to the front door. Steeling myself for the cold bite of the mountain air I reached around the corner and slammed the door shut.

“That’ll teach me for leaving it open again” I thought to myself.

Sitting in the corner hugging myself, I spent a good 5 minutes considering whether or not my legs were likely to snap like dry twigs if I stood up, then because I am not known as “The Mighty” Chunderpants for nothing in one fluid (or maybe several fumbling) motions I leapt to my feet (or maybe I climbed up the table leg until I was in an approximately upright position).

Last night slowly came back to me. The trek through the snow down the mountain, meeting the guys in The Boars Head. Several(ish) flagons later us all ending up outside Mrs Miggins’ Kebob Shoppe. Heading over to the Mage Quarter for a bit of fun with the girls there….and that’s the last I remember. Oh well, I suppose some of the guys carried me back up here at some point.

Feeling slightly better with myself and quietly confident that I wasn’t going to yet again pebbledash the stone floor I made my way over to the sink, had a wash, brush and checked the beard for traces of kebob. Satisfied that I was all ship shape I pulled open the front door and stepped outside….”BY THE GODS!!” I cried. There in the snow, half buried was a wooden crate. Not just any old crate mind you, but a smouldering crate, and not just any old smouldering crate, but a smouldering crate with the word “Whisky” stencilled on the side.

“Whhhhhheeeeeeeeee…splat!” I heard as another crate embedded itself in the snow not 10 yards from where I stood. My eyes followed the curling arc of a smoke trail it had left behind which disappeared over the brow of the hill to my left and it was then that I saw the huge pall of smoke rising into the dawn sky.

With a speed that belies my 87 years I grabbed a pair of frozen solid cacks off the hook, shrugged them on (boy did THAT wake me up!) followed by my boots and a coat, snatched up my gun and horn was back out of the door in all of 20 seconds, running up the hill towards the smoke. As I ran I put the horn to my mouth and blew the alarm for all I was worth.

Still blowing that horn, like a pair of Frigg’s (that’s Odin’s missus you know?) bloomers after a particularly bad wolf curry, I began to hear replies from across the hills and valleys. Nearing the brow of the ridge I began to glimpse out of the corner of my eye other people running in the direction of the smoke. I reached the brow of the hill and sank to my knees. The pain that filled my gut wasn’t caused by the running, but by the sight before my watering eyes……

The distillery! Oh my Gods the distillery! The WHISKY distillery!!!!!!!

At the base of the valley, not half a mile away, the Dallas Du whisky distillery was on fire. To appreciate how much of a catastrophe this was you have to be a dwarf. You have to realise the affect of knowing that inside that inside that building gallons upon gallons of pure blessed nectar was rapidly vanishing. Bloody wars have been fought over a spilled mug in an inn let alone the whole ruddy plant going up!

I dried my eyes, got to my feet and swearing at the top of my voice every blasphemy I could conjure up in this moment of anguish launched myself down the steep incline towards my own personal Hell.