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a Tabletop Beard story by award-winning author Kevin James Breaux.

By the time I climbed out of Deepglimmer Mine, I was more mountain than dwarf.

Gold dust clung to my eyebrows like frost, coal grit blackened the creases of my knuckles, and a ribbon of mud had dried down the front of my tunic where an underground spring had spat at me from a cracked seam in the rock.

My beard, pride of the Ironbraid clan and usually long enough to tuck into my belt with dignity, hung in stiff, filthy ropes. Somewhere in the dark behind me, the mine carts still rattled, and the lantern-wisps bobbed over the rails, but my shift was done.

More than done.

Tonight was my wedding anniversary.

“Go on, Brokk,” old Master Garn had said, waving me away with his pick. “No vein of gold is richer than a patient wife, and yours has waited twenty-seven years for you to learn that.”

I had laughed, but the truth of it warmed me better than forge coals. My wife, Merra, had put up with cave-ins, late suppers, soot on the pillows, and one regrettable evening when I brought home what I thought was a gold nugget and turned out to be a sleeping fire beetle. She deserved more than a miner staggering into the Silver Stag smelling like wet boots and dragon breath.

So, I did not go straight to dinner. I turned instead toward our cottage under the rowan trees, where the chimney puffed blue smoke into the evening, and the bath rune over the side door.

I cracked the door and caught sight of myself in the polished old shield Merra kept by the pegs. Saints of stone, I looked like something a troll would scrape off its heel.

I filled the copper tub from the heated cistern. Steam rose in pearl-white curls, but when I sank into the water, the bath turned gray around me in a slow, shameful cloud.

I took up the bottle of body wash from the shelf—Tabletop Beard’s Cleric Body Wash—scented like mintberry and eucalyptus, things my wife Merra enjoyed. I liked them too. The body wash did not have that “fake or fancy suds smell,” that those mass-produced by the Human nobles. HA! Yuck. I’m rather use all natural things made my families like Tabletop Beard.

I also enjoyed using it this body wash because my dirt does not surrender to water alone. The grit of body wash scrubbed well across my arms and chest, lifting away sweat, lamp oil, and stubborn stone dust. It smelled clean without being sharp, which mattered, because I wanted Merra to smell her favorite scents tonight, not the inside of a tunnel.

I scrubbed until my skin remembered it was skin. The grime fled in streaks, and the old tattoo of a gold vein on my shoulder shone through again, bright as when Merra traced it on our wedding night and told me I carried treasure even before I found any.

Then came the true labor: my long and full beard.

A dwarf’s beard is no mere decoration. It is a family banner, weather rope, memory keeper, and—if neglected—a net for crumbs, cinders, and small pebbles. I worked a handful of Tabletop Beard’s Cleric Scented Beard Wash into the roots first. I used beard wash rather than the body wash because beard hair is a different beast altogether. Body wash would strip it too harshly and leave it dry as cave moss. The beard wash was thoughtfully made to break up dust and ore grit while keeping the hair strong. I massaged it down through the length of my beard, and the lather came out black at first, then brown, then finally white. A tiny fleck of gold appeared in the foam near my chin, and I set it carefully on the tub’s rim. Waste not, anniversary or no.

After rinsing, I reached for the Tabletop Beard’s Beard Conditioner; I have several but chose the one with a Dwarven Cleric on the label. I used it because a long beard, especially one that has spent twelve hours in dry mine air and gold dust, tangles into knots fierce enough to blunt a comb. The conditioner softened the strands, eased the snags, and put back the moisture the mine had stolen. I let it sit while I leaned back and listened to the cottage settling around me: kettle ticking, floorboards sighing, some small brownie in the wall muttering about socks. When I rinsed again, my beard flowed through my fingers instead of scraping across them like rope.

I stepped out, wrapped myself in a linen towel, and faced the polished shield once more.

Better. Considerably better.

Still, clean was not the same as presentable, and this was Merra’s night. I warmed a dab of Tabletop Beard’s Ranger Beard Butter between my palms until it melted to a soft sheen. I worked it through my beard from root to tip because beard butter hydrates the hair and the skin beneath it.

A miner’s beard can grow brittle from dust, fire, and winter air; the butter kept it supple, soothed the itch at my jaw, and gave it a low, healthy shine. It smelled faintly of the forest, fresh rain, and leather—kind and familiar scents, manly scents.

Finally, I opened the tin of Tabletop Beard’s Beard Balm. Now, butter was for care and light hold, but I added the balm for extra hold. I used the beard balm to style the beard so it would hold its shape through dinner, dancing, and whatever affectionate tug Merra might give it when she laughed.

I twisted the side braids tight, shaped the ends into neat curls, and pressed the central fall smooth over my best green waistcoat. Into the braids I fastened two golden beads I had made myself, each engraved with the rune for “hearth.”

When I dressed, I chose polished boots, a white shirt with pearl buttons, and the cloak Merra had woven from ram-wool and starlight thread. In my pocket went the gift: a delicate brooch shaped like a rowan leaf, hammered from the finest gold I had pulled from Deepglimmer that year. Not the largest nugget, mind you. The brightest. Merra had always preferred bright things over grand ones.

The path to the Silver Stag wound through lantern-lit streets carved into the mountain’s outer face. Above, the first stars pricked the violet sky. Below, in the valley, the human town rang its evening bells, thin and sweet. Dwarven bells answered from the stone towers, deeper and steadier, like the mountain clearing its throat. I walked quickly but not too quickly; I wanted the people I passed by to enjoy my fresh look. A styled beard deserves respect. HA!

Merra was already waiting at our corner table beneath a chandelier of glow-crystals. She wore a blue dress embroidered with silver roots, and her own auburn beard was braided with tiny white flowers. She looked up as I entered. For a heartbeat, I was back at our wedding feast, young and terrified, wondering how such a woman had chosen a rock-headed miner with more stubbornness than sense.

Then she smiled.

“Brokk Ironbraid,” she said as I reached her, “you have not come directly from the mine.”

“I have not,” I admitted, bowing low enough that my beard curls nearly kissed the tablecloth. “I thought my wife deserved better than a walking coal sack.”

She leaned closer, eyes bright with amusement, and breathed in. “Mintberry. Forrest. Eucaltypus. And not one hint of cave fungus.”

“That was the goal.” I drew out the brooch and laid it in her palm. “Happy anniversary, my heart.”

Merra touched the golden leaf, then touched one of the beads in my beard. “You made much effort tonight.”

“For you, I would wrestle a basilisk in a bathtub.”

She laughed then, the sound warm enough to melt frost from a dragon’s coin-hoard, and stood to kiss my cheek. “You look handsome,” she whispered. “And you smell wonderful. Thank you for the effort.”

My chest swelled larger than any treasure vault. I had spent my life chasing gold through the bones of the earth, but as we sat to dinner—mushroom pies, roast root vegetables, amber ale, and sweet crystal pears—I knew the finest riches were not buried at all. They were across the table, smiling at me over candlelight, pleased not because I had found bright metal, but because I had remembered to come to her clean, cared for, and proud.

And when the musicians struck up an old dwarven waltz, Merra took my hand and pulled me to the floor. My beard held its shape, my boots shone, and my wife’s smile gleamed brighter than Deepglimmer’s richest vein.

For once, I left the gold in the mountain and carried the treasure home in my arms. All thanks to my friends at Tabletop Beard and their amazing premium beard care products.

-Brokk