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).