Chapter 2 - Buundhil Solves A Riddle

And so it was that Buundhil of the Blackhorn clan was accepted under the tutelage of Chundar the Grey even though Chundar’s first impression of the guy wasn’t all that great.

For seven days and seven nights Buundhil and the wizened Chundar sat and stared at each other across the fire in the old dwarf’s cave - a fire that never seemed to wane or need more kindling. Buundhil understood that this must be another test – a test of patience. If he spoke, Chundar would refuse to help him, and so he sat blinking away sleep even as he felt his arms and legs go numb. The sun and moon rose and fell like twin monarchs of a restless nation, but neither Buundhil nor Chundar spoke. The older dwarf stood tall and proud in his wet rags, never once seeming to tire even as Buundhil struggled with his sleeplessness. Finally, on the dawn of the eighth day, Chundar spoke.

“So, are ye waitin’ fer me t’propose ye bleedin’ moron are ye goona tell me what the hell ye want with me already?”

Though exhausted, Buundhil spoke long of his achievements in hunting and war. He told Chundar that he had won a place of honor among the ancient order of the Thousand Wardens. He told Chundar he had laid low the great devilsaur King Mosh that had maimed his father. He told Chundar how he had slain all manners of servants of darkness – demons, dragons, even kings! And yet he felt his life was pointless and empty. No matter how many beasts he slew or soldiers of evil he humbled, there were always more. And he no longer knew if this was the direction in which his life should lead. His passion for war was gone.

Chundar the Grey laughed heartily in the manner that those who are wise laugh because their wisdom, which is greater than ours, is so great that those things which we consider both miraculous and cataclysmic are nothing to them. And hence it is funny. Because of their wisdom. And so they laugh. Heartily.

“Ye have achieved too much? That’s yer problem?” Chundar spoke after a healthy dose of the hearty laughter which those not as wise as the wisest can only feel humbled by but never understand because of our inferior wisdom. “Well, lad that’s a fine problem t’have now ain’t it? Mebbe yer problem is ye need a hobby, ye know? Like, somethin’ that ain’t about bloodlettin’? Ye should mebbe develop a few skills that—”

Buundhil explained that he had mastered many arts and skills in his time. He told Chundar he could skin one of the massive clefthooves of Draenor with such skill that when it was over you’d hardly think the thing had been born with fur. And with it he could fashion armor fit for kings. He told Chundar he could sniff out ore in the most remote, desolate areas of Azeroth or broken Draenor, and draw the stuff like poison from the earth. He told Chundar he had even learned just enough of the arcane to imbue weapons and armor with enough mystical energy to boost the natural physical and mental prowess of their owners. And he, somewhat ashamedly, told Chundar that he had mastered the strange, dark art of the gnomes – engineering. He could build guns and bombs and even owned a swift flying machine he had built with his own scarred, strong hands.

“Ye own a flying machine?” Chundar asked.

Buundhil nodded.

“Then why the hell didn’t ye use that to get up the mountain?”

Having been awake for seven days and seven nights, Buundhil said something like uhhhhhh for a really long time and ended with the barest squeak of a fart.

“Okay, okay, nevermind then,” Chundar waved the question away dismissively. “Well, hmm. Well – AH! – Maybe yer problem is ye’ve been fightin’ fer the wrong reasons, ye know? Like, fer selfish reasons. Ye need t’join a cause, aye? Be part of somethin’ larger than yers—”

Buundhil explained that he had fought for the Alliance armies amidst the frozen chaos of Alterac Valley, the green slopes of Arathi, the violet wood of Ashenvale, and the strange broken land of Netherstorm. He told Chundar he had lost countless hours driving back the Burning Legion from the Isle of Quel’Danas for the Shattered Sun; protecting the last remaining beacon of light on Draenor – Shattrath City – from ogres, demons and arrakoa for the Sha’tari Skyguard; helping to save the besieged race of nether drakes in Illidan’s black Shadowmoon Valley; wrestling with the twisted naga to stop their rape of Zangarmarsh for the Cenarion Circle; driving the deceitful Onyxia from the halls of Stormwind and slaying her in her lair; saving several high-ranking members of the Alliance from the bowels of Blackrock Depths and burying bullets deep into the hide of the Dark Iron king and his legions of servants; infiltrating the Black Drag—

“A’right, a’right! Enough already!” Chundar cried. He scratched his chin for a moment and then spoke, “Ah! I know somethin’ ye probably have nae done. In the dry desert of Tanaris, on the southeastern corner of Kalimdor, there be caverns guarded by ancient—”

Buundhil said he knew where Chundar was going with this and yes, he’d already done that.

“The Caverns of Time? Ye’ve been there?”

Buundhil sighed and nodded.

“Ye’ve traveled through time itself?”

Buundhil said that yes, he had done it a whole bunch of times. He told Chundar once he had even done it just to get a funny hat.

“Where’s the funny hat?”

Buundhil told Chundar he left the funny hat with his flying machine.

Chundar threw up his arms in defeat.

“Well, ye got a legitimate problem there, laddy,” he said. “If after all that ye feel yer life is pointless, then we definitely need t’discuss some things t’get ye straightened out. But first, ye must pass another test! The test of…the riddle!”

Buundhil nodded to signify that this was, by all means, okay with him.

“Answer me this riddle, brave dwarf! What walks on four legs in the mornin’, two legs in the afternoon, an’ three legs at night?”

Buundhil told Chundar the answer was a Smurnit.

“What?”

Buundhil repeated that it was a Smurnit.

“What the bleedin’ fook is a Smurnit?”

Buundhil explained that a Smurnit was a type of spider that lived in the peaks above Nagrand. Smurnits had very awkward, four-legged bodies – their two front legs being big, fat, serrated things. So when the males went to mate with the females, they would often end up accidentally killing the females during the act. Because of this, the males and females had learned to – right before mating, which usually took place in the afternoon because it took a while for the male Smurnit to find a female Smurnit – work together to gnaw off the front two legs of the male Smurnit. Having no two front legs, the male Smurnit would have one hell of a time making its way over to the female Smurnit, and it would usually be nightfall by the time the two found themselves in the appropriate position. At this point you could, metaphorically, say the male Smurnit had three legs because their genitals - while erect - were totally freaking huge.

Chundar just kind of stared at Buundhil for a while.

Finally, the old dwarf said. “No. NO! It’s not a bleedin’ Smurnit! The answer is, a dwarf! A dwarf crawls on four legs as a baby! An’ walks on two legs as an adult! An’ walks with a cane as an elderly dwarf! So there ye go! Four in the mornin’, two in the afternoon, an’ three at night!”

Buundhil said that he didn’t think that made much sense. Babies crawled on two legs and two hands, not four legs. And a cane was more like an extension of the hand than a third leg.

“Ye ain’t thinkin’ of it in the right con—”

And what if a dwarf died during childbirth? Or before adulthood? Or before old age? Was Chundar saying that dwarves weren’t real dwarves unless they lived long enough? Buundhil wasn’t elderly yet, and his profession could hold some very bleak prospects as far as growing old was concerned. Was Chundar questioning Buundhil’s dwarfhood?

“No, no, ye gotta kinda think of it like—”

And what the hell was this about dwarves only being able to walk around during certain times of the day based on their age and the solar cycle? He’d never heard of that. He’d sure have some harsh words for King Magni if he’d instituted a tyrannical system like this while Buundhil had been on the mountain. And canes? Buundhil had seen a lot of old dwarves and they didn’t all have canes. Hell, Chundar was pretty damn old himself and he didn’t have a cane. His own father had lost a leg during adulthood and didn’t walk with a cane – he walked with a crutch. Which, by Chundar’s logic, gave him only two legs. And since when do elderly dwarves walk around at night? In his experience old dwarves just kind of lounged around at night and bitched about the cold, which, you know, was kind of silly if you live in Dun Morogh of all pla—

“Well what about these fookin’ Smurnits then?” Chundar interrupted loudly. “I’m a flippin’ wise man fer fook’s sake! Why ain’t I never heard of ‘em?”

Buundhil said that, well, they were extinct after all. What did Chundar expect from an animal with such stupid mating practices?

Chundar glared at Buundhil and told him, in a low and threatening tone, to go to sleep.

Buundhil did.

Chapter 1 - Buundhil takes a piss

And so it was that Buundhil Blackhorn of the Blackhorn clan - last of his people, the famed vanquisher of the devilsaur King Mosh, proud officer of the Thousand Wardens, weathered veteran of the Stormpike wars and the Shattered Sun Offensive, slayer of beasts, drinker of alcohol, staunch avoider of attractive women - came to the dwarven town of Kharanos with a heavy heart and a growling stomach.

He was welcomed into the Thunderbrew Distillery with the usual legendary hospitality of the dwarves. A few patrons even woke up long enough to protectively slide what was left of their drinks closer to their persons.

After much drinking and embarrassing singing, the brave hunter announced that he found himself at a crossroads in life. He was a hunter who had slain all there was to slay. He had tasted dragon fire. He had wrestled with the dead. He had even broke the barriers of time itself and returned to (mostly) lie about it. What was left in life for the last survivor of the proud Blackhorn clan? What was the point of going on, fighting endless wars against enemies that never seemed to advance while never seeming to shrink? What was the point of this pointless life?

The barkeep, wishing mainly to shut the bastard up and get him outside, told the brave hunter of a great wise man who lived in a cave atop the tallest peak in Dun Morogh - on the mountain directly north of ancient Ironforge. This wise man - named Chundar the Grey - had put many a lost dwarf on his or her path in life. But he required a test! In order to win Chundar's wisdom, a dwarf must carry a warm drink up the side of the treacherous mountain, and the drink must somehow still be steaming and hot when that dwarf reached the top!

That was all Buundhil needed to hear. He handed the barkeep a heavy pouch of gold to keep his pet and mount fed while he embarked on his journey. He wrote a quick, mainly illegible letter to lovely Endryel of the Wardens, informing her of his journey. Then, ordering a warm, hearty cider from the barkeep, he set forth for the mountain directly south of Ironforge.

Of course, the barkeep had told him it was mountain north of Ironforge, but he had been pretty blasted himself, and it actually was the southern one, so everything worked out okay.

The first day passed with little danger. Buundhil easily walked up worn, level trails. He encountered a few wild yeti, and even a surprised frost troll, but there was little in Dun Morogh that could survive long once Buundhil set his sights on it. He rested in a dry nook halfway up the great mountain. He had won a strange metal thing called a "thermos" from a goblin on Draenor - either in a card game or from hitting him on the head and taking it, he didn't remember which - capable of sustaining a liquid's temperature for days. Buundhil opened the thing only once, and was instantly assured by the smoky heat that crept up his nose. The drink smelled delicious, but he was still nicely full and slightly knackered from the night before, so it did not tempt him too much.

The trails continued for most of the second day, but Buundhil sobered up painfully as the trails died and he was met with the tall, frozen wall of the mountain. Cursing under his breath a curse that somehow found the fault for his predicament in the existence of gnomes, Buundhil dragged himself slowly up the wall, finding safe but slippery cracks for his hands and feet. But his progress was much slowed. He rested for the night on a tiny ledge. Luckily, he had had the forethought to bring some firewood and kindling, but only enough for that night. He made a small fire, rested the thermos near it, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

On the third day, his work was more treacherous. Few cracks were found for his fingers and toes. His gloves and boots - that had survived so many pitched battles with demons and ghosts and dragons - began to fray and feel the cold of the mountain. His breath was heavy and slow when he finally pierced the clouds and found another precarious ledge. But his heart sank as he saw it was not the end of his journey. He could see the peak in the distance. If he kept going, he would reach it shortly after nightfall, but he knew his drink would not stay warm. He popped the thermos open and dripped just a bit of the drink on his tongue. It was barely luke-warm. It would be cold, perhaps even frozen, by the time he reached the top. How could he keep it warm? He had no more fire!

Buundhil rested for an hour, and at the end had a silly idea. It was one of the sillier ideas he had had, and he could boast quite a few. But to be fair, it was really the only choice.

Buundhil surprised himself by reaching the peak before nightfall. His solution had added a complication that lent speed to his journey. As promised, a tiny, whizened dwarf waited in a small cave near the peak, sitting cross-legged before a healthy fire. He raised his eyes and smiled as Buundhil approached.

"Tordren of the Rockill clan!" Chundar called out. "I knew you would come!"

Buundhil informed Chundar that he was not Tordren, but Buundhil of the Blackhorn clan.

"Oh. You." Chundar sighed and shook his head. "I got the queue all wrong I guess. Well, then where's me drink?"

Hopping on one leg, Buundhil informed Chundar he had no idea what the older dwarf was talking about.

Chundar rose up and stomped towards Buundhil.

"Yer supposed t'bring me a drink and keep it warm all the way up the mountain, ye feignin' bastard! Nae, if ye dinnae bring one, ye gotta go back down an' get it!"

Buundhil informed Chundar that he knew this, and that he had brought the drink, and that it was still nice and warm. In fact, it was probably warmer than when he bought it. But no one had said anything about Chundar drinking it, and he didn't think Chundar would want to drink it now. But Buundhil would, if asked, provide the drink, but he thought the whole affair would be kind of dirty and might leave them both feeling violated and uncomfortable. Then Buundhil impatiently started hopping on his other leg.

Chundar was confused by this, but soon understood as he watched Buundhil switch from one leg to the next, hopping up and down as if he had to do something, like, RIGHT NOW.

Chundar nodded and said, "Ack, well ye get points fer cleverness ye silly bastard! Do yer business so we c'n get started then."

Thanking the old dwarf quickly, Buundhil rushed to the edge of the cliff, undid the front of his trousers, and sighed gratefully as a long arc of yellow urine - which had until that point been a warm cider Buundhil had been keeping very warm in his hot, gooey digestive system - arched over the mountainside and probably sprinkled on a few yeti and maybe even a gnome or two (Buundhil hoped).