a Tabletop Beard story by Kevin Breaux

It’s a cool winter evening. The wind outside presses so hard against the building that the foundation groans. Balbo Garabaldi is seated inside The Dragon’s Beard, after a long and lively celebration honoring those who have passed. While staring into the roaring fire inside the oversized hearth, he strokes his waist-length beard and reminisces about the not-too-distant past.

“All’s clear boss,” Evelyn says cheerfully on her approach. “We’re closed for the night! Get some rest.”

Balbo nods. “You go ahead up. You’re opening in the morning.”

“You know I can’t sleep after one of your parties. Especially when it’s—”

“I know. I know.”

After giving Balbo’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, she whispers, “You did good tonight. The other clerics were very touched by your speech.”

“Thank you, Evelyn.”

“You’re all deeply retrospective, I can sense it.” She crossed her arms and swung her hips into a more relaxed stance and then smirked. “What fills your ale-soaked mind?”

“That first day… That very first day.”

***

After ages of questing, and gathering enough treasure to buy an entire city, Balbo purchased the inn that would later become the Dragon’s Beard. He wanted to provide a safe place for everyone to eat, drink, and find entertainment. All classes and all races would be welcome in his establishment.

Balbo had adventured with all sorts: elven rangers, human fighters, gnome wizards, halfling rogues, dwarven clerics even a warlock that was part demon. The rewards were many, but the loss of teammates, good people who had become friends, had become too much for him to stomach.

“Are you sure?” Drogan asked.

Drogan Fairstone, a dwarven cleric, was an old friend of Balbo’s. He had quested often with him through the years.  

The once young and bright-eyed man he was had gained more than gems and gold though the years; he had earned valuable wisdom. He had no doubts in his ming; it was time to move on to the next stage of life.

There was a distant howl in the wind, it sounded like a woman’s panicked scream for help. He had heard that voice before, long ago. He knew it he was imagining it now—that person was dead, regardless of it sending a chill down his spine.

“I am, Drogan,” Balbo said while he stretched the stiffness of an old wound out of his arm. “I’m…done.”

“I remember the first time we quested together. You had only a knuckle’s length of wavy beard hair. Do you recall what I told you then?”

“Indeed, I do. You said I looked like a child trying to cover up my inexperience.”

Drogan laughed before he stepped closer to Balbo, just outside the front entrance to the inn. “And look at you now, wearing a fine beard, long, full, brushed nightly by beautiful full-bodied women.”

Balbo laughed back.

“The length of a man’s beard tells a tail of his experience. When it reaches the floor, then the man must decide if it is time to change his ways.”

Balbo pointed at Drogan’s long beard. “You’re getting close, old friend.”

“I have many years of questing ahead of me.”

After he patted Drogan’s shoulder, Balbo smiled. “Teach the young ones, will you? Prepare them better than we were prepared.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now, hand me that fancy glowing hammer of yours.”

Drogan’s war hammer was his most prized possession, Balbo knew this, he was there when he forged it, and there when it was enchanted by a powerful wizard. Once he took the hammer, he aimed it and then used it to pound the post that had the quest board fixed to it into the hard ground.

 “Really, Garabaldi?” Drogan sighed. “Such a use for a legendary holy weapon?”

“Hey, now my quest board is blessed. Right? Ha!“

Drogan took the hammer back as he fought off a smile. “I see there is a quest here that requires a cleric, rogue, and fighter. A goblin den?”

Balbo laughed again. “Reports of 12-15 goblins.”

“What is so funny about 15 unruly goblins?”

“It’s not the goblins that make me laugh, it’s the fighter who is waiting for a rogue and cleric to join him on the quest,” Balbo tilts his head, crinkles his nose, and nods.

“Ahh….” Drogan moans. “Is it someone I know?”

“Yes. Someone you know.”

“Someone whose presence I do not enjoy?”

Balbo nods. “Yes. Someone you do not enjoy.”

“Does this fighter by any chance have red scales and a propensity of getting his squad mates in trouble?”

“He does have red scales.”

The dwarf stomped his feet and groaned. “Curses.”

“Ha! Still want the quest, old friend? This will be the first of my listed quest taken.”

Drogan hefted his war hammer over his shoulder, drew a deep breath and looked Balbo in the eye. “Have I ever turned down a quest?”

“No, no you have not,” Balbo flashed his most charming smile.

“So, where is this goblin den?”

“An old abandoned mine. North of here, in the hills where—”

“I know the place,” Drogan’s voice was filled with confidence.

“Good. Good.”

“I can’t recall, tell me, what was being mined there?”

“I’m told that mine was abandoned a hundred years ago,” Balbo tilted his head in thought. “Gemstones of some sort.”

Drogan smiled as he reached his hand out to shake Balbo’s. “Goblins. Mines. Gemstones.”

“No better quest for a dwarven cleric.”

The two old friends shake hands.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join me?”

Deep down, in many ways, Balbo wished he could.

“I wish you the best of luck, friend. I’ll be here waiting inside the Dragon’s Beard when you come back for your reward.”

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