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.