Chapter 1: Glimmering Gold

Sitting quietly on a stool in Tapster's Tavern, a middle aged, but powerful, dwarf impatiently grumbled as he waited for his drink to be delivered. He hated being close to other people. That was why, today in the tavern, he felt anxious. Bhelen 'supporters' cheered and drank followed by more cheers and drinking and chanting.

He felt uncomfortable in such a loud and crowded area, fearing thieves stealing his possessions - most notably his gold. His precious gold. The reclusive dwarf just wanted some ale, now he had to put up with the tavern being overrun with hooligans eager to show their 'support' for the new King. Walking toward him was Corra, the bartender of Tapster's Tavern. She had short red hair and a large nose. Above her blue eyes were faint eyebrows. Despite her tattered clothing, she was a nice sight to look at - for the average customer. But the dwarf she was walking towards remembered her whining and complaining to him only a few days ago (not that he asked for her to do so), supposedly disgusted at Bhelen and his policy ideas, instead favouring Harrowmont's 'kindness'. But now as he looked at her beaming fake smile as she continued to serve the patrons, he wondered how many other people in the building truly supported the new monarch, or instead were looking out for their own skin. He received his black drink and stood up, revealing his figure.

He had a large black beard with two lengthy braids reaching down below his chin. The braids were tied at the end by beautifully crafted shimmering gold bands that the dwarf adored. Beady dwarven eyes showed his distrust of all around him; they never relaxed, always watching his pockets and ensuring no one got to close. His clothes were of a higher standard than the typical dwarf. It featured leather fastenings and linen piping along the seams with a miserable brown and grey colouring. His pockets were large. He prefered holding onto his gold in person, rather than keeping it stored in a safe at home; it was the best company he could find. This dwarf was Fafnir, son of Hreidmar.

He was the leader of his smithing caste house, House Aesir. His skill with a hammer rivalled any one of his ancestors, fashioning intricate designs on breastplates that required ten able bodied dwarves to accomplish. Bloated arms showcased his prowess in handling the toughest of tools. Being able to smelt even the toughest of ores - such as Veridium and Silverite - he had developed a growing reputation among the other houses in the smithing caste. If given the correct materials, Fafnir's confidence led him to believe he could craft the finest armour any living dwarf has seen, as long as he could obtain rare Dragonbones or other scarce yet valuable ores.

But, Fafnir's true passion lay elsewhere. He had a large fascination with gold. Others would describe it as less of a fascination and more of an obsession. Fafnir's close family, however, would say it is more accurate to call it a compulsion - a need to gather as much gold as he could, whether in the form of sovereigns, jewellery or otherwise. But unfortunately for the greedy dwarf, he was born into a blacksmith family, a particular family that protected the royal guards and royal family members through armour. A dwarf rarely ever changes their caste, requiring permission from the Assembly, meaning he was stuck in the forge. With current events, he was now creating armour for 'King Bhelen'.

A smith usually does not have his own vending stall, needing to bypass the draconian rules governing many aspects of their lives in order to obtain a permit to sell his own goods that he created. This made Fafnir curse the fact that he couldn't have been born into the merchant cast, being forced to sell Silverite runes and jewellery as his other creations went straight to the royal household. Any of Orzammar's archaic rules that hindered his ability to gain his precious gold made him resent the traditions.

He carried his small hammer wherever he went, suspicious of Orzammar in these tough, troubled times. He tried to reason with himself about the celebrations. The election of a new king should finally put away the political turmoil encompassing the proud city and lead to stability. More stability means economic growth. Fafnir smiled. A better economy leads to more people willing to spend. Atleast, that's how it should be. But all he'd seen so far was an act. The people were scared of Bhelen; their tousts of his anointment merely a front to not be investigated as an accessory to treason.

The tavern was average sized, but one of the most popular in the underground city, advantaged by its fortunate position in the Orzammar Commons. Red carpets with dwarven carvings lay in multiple areas. Large stone spikes dotted the ceiling but the dwarves were too short to get injured. Stone tables with stone chairs were placed around the tavern, each full with people chanting 'Bhelen'. An unimpressive stage took up a great deal of space opposite the bar, with both dried vomit stains and fresh vomit decorating the ground... and somehow the walls and ceiling too...

On the stage were two foul smelling dwarves: one with bloodshot eyes that seemed to bulge out - a common symptom of consuming too much of the 'Paragon of ales': Valenta's Red - singing an dwarven drinking song with a fair amount of talent; the other was less impressively 'performing' and more so shouting exaggerated praises of the new king and profanity filled curses at him unnamed opponents. His mouth frothed with every word.

Fafnir sat near the back, away from most of the commotion. Earlier he had to push a man off his lap after collapsing suddenly. Fafnir wasn't concerned about the spilled mead all over his tunic, rather the possibility that his coins spilled out his pockets. Grabbing the man by the collar with his beefy arms, Fafnir hurled him over to the next table, who were themselves too drunk to care for the unconscious man.

Behind the bar was a stone cask full with black dwarven ale that only dwarves seem to be able to chug and withstand. Fafnir stared at Corra's behind as she walked to the bar, thinking of the things he'd do to her upstairs, on those uncomfortable beds, thinking her nothing more than a bar wench.

The blacksmith grinned at her.

Loud footsteps could be heard going near the door as it flung open revealing Vartag Gavorn, the king's second, followed by two other armoured figures.

He wore blue and white medium chainmail armour crafted, by Fafnir's late father himself, from Silverite, showing his status in House Gavorn, a minor house in the noble caste.

Vartag looked around the tavern, searching until his eyes landed on the greedy dwarf, Fafnir.

His eyes were fierce as he stormed toward Fafnir. In return the smith chugged his ale tankard as the King's second approached. Vartag had a small stubble - practically considered beardless compared to the faces around him. His heavy boots shook the ground with each step.

Few heads turned to see what was going to occur being too busy downing another tankard.

"Fafnir! I'm sure you've heard the news about the King." His voice was rough.

"Of course I have. All I want is quiet and these bastards love partying." Fafnir's voice was croaky, annoyed and overly suspicious of everyone. He twitched his left arm as Vartag kept walking toward him and his pouch of sovereigns, suspicious of the nobleman's intentions.

"They merely are celebrating the rightful king on the throne." Vartag reminded him. Any suspected Harrowmont sympathisers were executed to 'keep the peace'. "Anyway, I'm here on order of the King to make sure you keep your promise of House Aesir producing armour for the royalty. You, being the head of your house, should be the one to ask." He lowered his head while still glaring, "you know what will happen if you break the oath."

Fafnir didn't care about politics as long as he and his house got wealthier. "Oh don't you worry, I have plenty of reasons to support Bhelen's ascension. He wants more ties to the surface? Great! More money to be made trading. Less importance in the caste system? Fine by me, more casteless to sell to." He paused and gave a stern eye to Vartag, "But he's young. If that little runt doesn't get the troubles sorted quickly, there'll be trouble, perhaps an attempt or two on his life from those who truly supported Harrowmont in their heart and hid it well. If he can show he's actually fit to rule, then he shall have my allegiance. I don't wish for Orzammar to be burned in a rebellion - that wouldn't be good for business." the man croaked.

The whole tavern looked at him. Not only did he insult Bhelen, but he spoke the name of the King's rival, which is banned in public places. Half of them also had their heart skip a beat, he was talking about them. It was widely visible beforehand how split the population had been on the question of succession after King Endrin's demise, yet now the entire population seemed united, switching allegiances so fast certainly alerted Bhelen and his men.

A couple of heavily armoured dwarves wearing veridium massive dwarven armour crafted by Fafnir's family approached the smith with killing intent.

"You dare say such things?!" They pulled their tasteful bronze waraxes from their sheaths. These dwarves were part of a new police force. They made sure Harrowmont fanatics in Orzammar were stamped out, using means such as bribery and force. Fafnir reached for his hammer as the dwarf in the front slashed at his side. Fafnir dodged and ducked, using the opportunity to swipe at the legs. Using the guard's own heavy weight against him as he pushed him and caused him to crashed to the floor

The dwarf fell onto the stone table and pieces of glass were stuck in his back as he crashed into bottles of ale.

Fafnir grabbed his smithing hammer with two hands and raised it high above his head. With an ear piercing shout he brought it down with all his might upon his head.

Upon impact the helmet shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces as the face below was completely annihilated with a large blood splatter and was unrecognisable. Fafnir might be just a blacksmith, but his swollen smithing arm cannot be blocked if he has a hammer in his hand. His swing rivalled even Caridin.

Vartag decided not to intervene, instead he watched with a bored expression. He knew that the dwarves challenging Fafnir were formerly open Harrowmont supporters and were trying to prove that they now support Bhelen in any way, including this one. If they didn't, an execution would come. Trash was merely killing trash, as he thought.

Fafnir inhaled sharply as he raised the hammer slowly. He was about to turn to the next dwarf that challenged him but was distracted by the dead dwarf's free hand. A golden coin unlike anything he'd ever seen before glimmered in the light. It was not a usual sovereign, larger. He was attracted to it. Looking in its direction and unable to turn away, it was as though it was cursed. He reached for it and with the first touch he felt pleasure. Quickly coming back to realisation of his situation, he stashed it in his smithing clothing pockets before people noticed.

He heard someone else charging and turned to see another dwarf in the same gear as the first one. Fafnir spun around and slammed the hammer into his right ear causing a large dent in the helmet and killing him instantly.

Fafnir gave a death stare to the crowd that watched in horror, with some beginning to stumble out of the tavern, drunkenly.

"WHO ELSE?!"

Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review!

And yes, I got the idea for this story thanks to the video game SMITE, where I'm basing my Fafnir from (as well as the mythology)