BONG…BONG…BONG… “BY THE OLD…that damned bell is deafening enough to make one wish for a life in a quiet, deep cavern some place. Imagine, living your whole life as a mushroom, never having to listen to the dull pounding of your own skull.”

 

           Bronk laughed silently at his cantankerous roommate, who always groaned this way when the deep bells announced the beginning of the day. The dwarf himself had begun to awake each day just before the first sounds of the morning, already becoming accustomed to the ritual monotony of the monastery. Leif, the cranky human who would slowly curse the stiff bed each day, had been a Brother of this order of monks for many years. He was most content while tending the fields, alone in his thoughts, and most angry whenever ritual demanded that the many Brothers gather in the sacred places for prayer and chant. Most of the others gave Leif a wide berth, for they had all too often been caught in the way of the old monk and had felt the whip of his indignations, or even the sting of an expertly thrown bowl of porridge across the mess hall.

 

           Bronk had less misgivings about the old man, likening him to a stubborn root that had never yielded to the wills of greater things, despite being thrashed, burned, and cut down many times. They had found an unspoken relationship through the many crops that were sown, and the subsequent foods and ales they would make with them. For all his hardness, Leif had a very special way with plants and growing things, and his yield would almost always garner the most flavor, whether in a pie or in a sturdy brew. He never gave up his secrets, but Bronk found himself lucky that Leif would only entrust his bounties to the dwarf, allowing them both the first tastes of the sweetest wines and foods and the best bits from the feasts. 

 

“Well think of it this way; would a mushroom be able to do the chants and the Khav-Klyn in return for whatever Hendun has in store for us tonight?”

 

             Bronk saw the old white-haired head perk up.

 

“I had forgotten!” smiled Leif. “That great rascal, always making a fuss over every new experiment of his. Luckily, I don’t think he could possibly brew something worse than that rock and dirt concoction he had the gumption to call drinkable. I can still remember the literal stones I had to pass: the size of my fist, no less!”

 

             They both chuckled as they made their way to the sacred chambers at the other end of the courtyard. While Bronk didn’t give much thought to the actual meanings of the chants and rituals, he always enjoyed the chance to listen to the great musics performed by the congregation, accompanied by the small hodgepodge of instruments played by whomever had brought their talent with them to the Order. In the spacious caverns where they held the ceremonies, the spoken words and harmonies would meld with the great stone and become more ethereal than anything else so close to the earth.

 

             Today was no different, the rumbling drums pounding with the chanted words, sending them powerfully upward to be served to the mystic forces that watch and deign to reign. Bronk would rarely speak the words himself, wanting rather to listen and admire. This usually went unnoticed, though he could have sworn that from time to time the head deacon would occasionally glance his way and would catch him not chanting with the rest, giving a splitsecond glare before returning to his own pious demeanor. This never bothered Bronk, for he knew that he was protected by his perceived youth and inexperience, as well as his genuine enjoyment and overall devotion to the physical portions and labors of monkhood.  

 

              After the homily, the mass of Brethren made their way to the open sparring fields, situated near the base of the tall mountains that surrounded the conclave. The morning sun was just beginning the breach over the peaks, which still cast the monks in shadow as sunshine slowly crept towards them from the far away valley’s end.  

 

              This was Bronk’s favorite part of the day, when he and his fellows would perform the movements and exercises taught and known to them as the Khav-Klyn. The nimbler among them would perform secondary, more advanced techniques while the larger and older would tackle the basic strengthening stances, all culminating in a held posture while the sun would slowly wash over the fields and release them to the day’s work. Bronk enjoyed pushing his strength and dexterity to the limit, and would often find himself in the most convoluted stance possible when it came time to hold still and wait for the warm light to wash over him. In that organic embrace that signaled the end of the conclave, he would find a moment of peace and clarity, as if nothing existed except the sun, the wind, and himself.    

 

              After eventually untangling himself from today’s position, (an unorthodox mix of the Preying Bugbear and Open Fist poses), and amicably performing the day’s tasks, Bronk met with Leif near the farm fields. Both with their arms full of vegetables and herbs, they walked together down into the great doors that lay open beneath the main building and into the cellar below.  

 

              Leif was a close companion with the ale-master, Hendun, who had in turn taken a liking to Bronk, showing him the ways of the trappist ale traditions that would produce the simple but strong drink that served as the main source of income for the monastery. Hendun was a Firbolg, and as such would proudly tout his eleven-foot stature when stirring the great cauldrons of fermenting schlop that would eventually turn to drink. He would regularly employ Bronk and Leif to handle the smaller, more delicate ingredients and the processes of bottling and corking, and in return made them privy to any of the new mixtures and recipes he would dream up late at night, deep in the cellar.          

 

              As the two laden monks made their way into the warm, dimly lit space, they passed row after row of great barrels full of fermenting ale. At the end of all the shelves, standing behind a great table littered with knives, beakers, and liquids of various viscosity and color was the firbolg, excitedly moving this way and that, muttering under his breath and stroking his long beard. As the smaller monks drew closer, Hendun looked up and shouted in excitement.

 

“Brothers! Wait until you get a chock full of this; it’s unlike anything else I’ve ever made. Come, come!”

 

               Bronk and Leif set down their stock and were each handed a large stein of dark liquid. Grasping his own, Hendun proclaimed, ”Hearth, friends, and joy!”  

 

               As they quickly gulped a large portion of the bitter brew, it immediately became apparent that this was the strongest drink that any of them had ever imbibed. So much so, that Leif fell back a few paces, stunned, and Bronk coughed a deep sigh of thanks as a familiar numbness swept through their heads.  

 

“I feel like I’ve just finished my third full pint,” Leif said astonished, half slurring some of the words. “How did you do it?”  

“Simple,” replied Hendun. “I added about three times the ingredients to about half the size of cauldron. Then tinkered about with how to go about getting rid of all the excess. I wanted to make something that I could enjoy and be strong enough for even the largest of beasts. I don’t suppose we could ever sell the stuff, it takes way too much in terms of stock, but I think a little between ourselves won’t hurt.”  

 

              And with that, he finished the rest of his drink, and drew another.  

 

              Both smaller monks grew hesitant at first, opting to simply sip at their drinks rather than down them in one go, as per the usual. Soon, however, the drink had done its purpose, and the three all laughed loudly, knocked over many barrels and shelves, and told stories with the sole purpose to make the others spit up their drinks and slosh themselves. There was even a little playful sparring that went on, Hendun having the clear advantage due to his ability to just sit on his opponent and Leif being aged as he was. Bronk would at times be able to use his new nonsense of balance to lean and charge towards his target, knocking over some furniture on the way, or even use the various rags and chairs scattered around to his advantage, and to the great amusement of all the Brothers.  

 

               The morning and its many headaches were far away, and Bronk knew that he had found the place to call his second home.