“Are you really Reorx? Hic.”
The draconian scowled. “Yes, yes, I am Reorx, and I am in a hurry.” He pointed a stubby finger toward the foothills. “So if you will excuse-”
“You are really Reorx?” The fat dwarf swayed on his feet and blinked, as if trying to focus. “Hic.”
“Yes.”
“Really, really Reorx?” The fat dwarf hiccuped again.
“Yes. I am really Reorx. And you and everyone else in this town are really intoxicated. Now if you don’t mind-
“We’s s’been celebrarin’ allllll s’day,” a black-bearded dwarf cut in. One of the drummers, he had wandered over to listen in. “S’day of the s’festival, ya s’know. We’s don’ts drinks much otherwise. ‘Cept unless we’s thirsty.”
The acting mayor glanced at the kender, who’d come up behind him and handed him another mug. The kender pulled the book from under his arm, opened it, and pointed to a full-page picture of a dwarf. The acting mayor got a good look. The draconian squinted at the picture-the breastplate indeed was similar to the one he displayed, as were the cape and the boots. The leggings were not quite so bright a red, but that could be attributed to a printer’s error.
“The Forge!” the acting mayor bellowed, as he dropped the mug of ale in surprise. He waved his arms, looking like a plump bird trying hopelessly to take to the air. “Everyone! The Forge has returned! Hid”
The music immediately stopped, and the townsfolk, kender and dwarves alike, seemed to utter a collective gasp. Then instruments were hurriedly set down, plates left in a stack, decorations left dangling. All the residents appeared to be thundering the sivak’s way.
“I really must be leaving.”
“I, Gustin-” the acting mayor slurred.
“Yes, I know who you are. You are Gustin Stoutbeard, the acting mayor of Neidarbard.”
Gustin’s cherubic face displayed surprise. “You know who I am? Hic. Hic. You know that I am the acting mayor here? Well. You truly are Reorx. Hic.”
“Yes. Yes. I am Reorx. I’ve said that three times now. I am indeed Reorx, and I must be on my way.” The dra-conian was breaking into a sweat. He could only maintain a form for so many hours, and he did not want be discovered. He needed to get out of this town and into the mountains, where the shadows from the peaks would conceal his silver body. “I’ve things to attend to, someplace I must be.”
The acting mayor seemed not to hear him. “I, Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of the fine village of Neidarbard hie proclaim the opening of the Festival of the Forge in hie honor of the greatest of Krynn’s gods, Reorx!” He stuffed the parchment with the rest of the speech into his pocket and continued, his voice raising in volume and authority. “We have been hie blessed, my friends. .
Behind him, the draconian muttered to himself, “God?
Reorx is a god? Oh my. I only know of the Dark Queen“
“. . for the gods hie have been absent since the Chaos War. There were some who believed the gods were gone forever, but we Neidarbardians knew the gods would return. We continued to honor them in festivals and prayers. We knew! Hic! Now we have been rewarded for our faithfulness. Reorx has chosen to appear before us! Reorx has returned! On this very day when we traditionally celebrate the Festival of the Forge, Reorx himself hie has returned!”
A cacophonous cheer went up as the dwarves and kender pressed themselves against the draconian. Some merely stroked his breastplate, which they oohed and ahhed over and said did not feel like metal at all. Others shook his thick hand, while some kissed the ground near his feet. Mugs clanked together and were quickly drained. Someone pressed a mug into the sivak’s hand.
“S’l brewed this,” an ancient dwarf drunkenly growled. “S’not been aged s’all that long, but. .”
“To Reorx!” There was another great cheer.
The draconian stood dumbstruck. “I. . I really must be going,” he said after a few minutes. He tried to remember how long it had been since he killed the dwarf and how much more time he might have to possess this body. Perhaps another hour at best, he guessed. Maybe two if he was fortunate. The hand holding the mug was nudged, and he raised it and drank the ale. It was thick and bitter and tasted good.
“Going where?” It was another one of the musicians.
The draconian studied his polished boots while he considered his reply. Someone refilled his mug. “Why, I am going to summon the rest of the gods, so they can all return to Krynn!”
There was another cheer, wilder and louder than before. More clinking of mugs that had been refilled. One of the kender musicians had picked up his horn and was blowing it shrilly.
“So, you see,” the dracordan added, as he drained the second mug, “I must be going. I must not keep all the other gods waiting.” He tried to take a step but found himself trapped by the crowd. He guessed there were nearly a hundred dwarves and a third that many more kender.
“Wwwhich gggods wwwill yyyou ssssummon fffirst? Hic.”
The draconian stared mutely at the speaker, who wobbled only a little more than the acting mayor.
“Mmmishakal?”
“Yes, I believe I shall summon Mishakal first.”
“Oh, good!” chirped someone buried in the crowd. “I shall drink to that! To Mishakal!”
“To Mishakal!” went up a cheer. “We’ll all drink to Mishakal!”
“Then Solinari? The god of good magic?” It was a middle-aged kender who was clutching a blue crystal mug in one hand and a flute in the other.
“Well. .”
“To Solinari!” Came another wave of cheering and toasting.
“What about Haba. . Habbbaba. . Habakkuk?”
“I intend to summon Habakkuk and then Solinari.”
There was another great round of cheering and toasting and drinking.
“Stay for a meal first!” This came from a dwarven woman at the edge of the crowd. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was waving a big wooden spoon in her hand. Chocolate dripped enticingly from it. “Summon the gods after you’ve tried the roast boar.”
The draconian’s belly growled again. “I suppose I could stay for just a little while.” Someone refilled his mug.
The whoops and cries of the dwarves and kender swelled to deafening proportions.
“I, hie Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting mayor of Neidarbard, welcome Reorx the Forge to our feast!”
“I cannot stay long, you understand. Gods are very busy.” The draconian found he must shout to be heard over the ruckus.
The acting mayor nodded and drunkenly gestured toward the tables. In response the crowd quieted a bit and backed away, like a wobbly wave receding from a beach. Gustin held out his hand, and for an instant the sivak considered bolting toward the foothills. Though he had the stubby legs of a dwarf, he had the strength of a draconian as well as the speed. There was now considerable space between he and the short townsfolk, and in their general state of inebriation, they would not be able to catch him.
However, the boar smelled very, very good.
He sighed and took the acting mayor’s hand, the portly dwarf practically swooning at the honor. Then Gustin led the sivak toward the gaily decorated tables and directed him to the center and to the largest chair. The draconian suspected the chair had been intended for the acting mayor, as it was wide enough to hold his bulk, and “His Honor” was engraved on the back.
Someone was slicing the boar, releasing more of the wondrous scents into the air. A finely carved tankard was filled to the brim with the finest dwarven ale the sivak had ever smelled. It was clomped down in front of the transformed draconian. He downed the contents of his other mug, discarded the empty container, then took a sip from the tankard and found that it oh-so-pleasantly warmed his throat. Not so bitter as the other ale, this had a hint of sweetness. He quickly drained it.