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# Waverider Expedition - Ardenvale

Otto the Dwarf being Otto the Dwarf

Millford was a sleepy harbor town at the edge of Ardenvale, where the air smelled of roast meat and wet wood, and every street led to a tavern. The Waverider had anchored for repairs and rest, but by sunset of the first night, Otto the Dwarf had vanished.

Venera found him soon enough.

The “Copper Cauldron” was the largest inn on the docks, and tonight it was bursting at the seams. Halflings darted between tables with trays stacked high with pies, roasted potatoes, and mugs of amber ale. A pair of dockside giants, hunched under the rafters, clinked tankards the size of buckets and sang badly out of tune. The smell of meat, sweat, and spilled beer filled the air so thick you could almost chew it.

And at the center of it all, standing on a table, swaying, beard full of crumbs, was Otto the Dwarf.

“...and when the mast snapped clean in two, did I run below deck? No!” he shouted, thumping his chest. “...the bloody mast snapped, but I, I, patched it mid-storm, with one hand and a gods-damned seagull for a hammer!”

The crowd howled with laughter. Someone tossed him a mug, which he caught and drained in one go.

“Another round for the hero!” a halfling called.

“Ah, just a few more drinks!” bellowed one of the giants, slapping the table so hard a roast duck bounced onto the floor.

Venera pushed through the crowd, her patience worn thin. “Otto the Dwarf!”

He looked down from his table, eyes glazed and grinning wide. “Ah, Pillowtits! You came to cheer your favorite dwarf!”

The tavern roared.

Venera’s slap cracked through the air like a whip crack.

Otto the Dwarf blinked, rubbed his cheek, and grinned again. “Deserved that. Still, ye could’ve waited till after the next round.”

He tried to step down, but on the way past her, he gave her rear a fond pat.

The second slap nearly spun him sideways.

The halflings cheered. The giants booed. “Let him finish his drink, lass!” someone shouted.

“Back to the ship,” she said through her teeth, grabbing him by the collar.

Otto the Dwarf threw up his hands. “All right, all right! I’m going! No need to bruise me ego more than you’ve bruised me face!”

The crowd parted for them, jeering good-naturedly as Venera dragged the dwarf out through the door, boots scraping, beard trailing like a banner of disgrace.

“Another ale for his courage!” a halfling called after them.

By the time they reached the Waverider, the moon was high and Otto was sober enough to curse at the tools waiting for him. Under threat of another slap, or worse, he went to work. The sound of hammering echoed across the water well into the night.

When Venera came back to check on him a few hours later, the deck was quiet except for one tremendous snore. Otto the Dwarf lay sprawled beneath the newly patched section of hull, a bottle on his chest, his beard full of sawdust and satisfaction.

The work was perfect.

Venera folded her arms, sighed, and muttered, “Miracle-working drunkard.”

Without opening his eyes, Otto the Dwarf grunted, “Best kind.”

She smiled despite herself. “If the ship ever sinks, I’m throwing you overboard first.”

He snored louder in reply.

The Waverider rocked gently in the harbor, while Millford’s laughter drifted faintly from the shore, the sound of a town that never stopped eating, drinking, or forgiving fools like Otto the Dwarf.

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