Preserving, Dwarven Wisdom

Chatter at the Stonehill is turning to the domestic this day.

"I went down to my cellar yesterday to get a squash and four of them were frozen. Ruined!" one citizen of Tempered Vale complains.

"Half a sack of our potatoes were ruined, too," another commiserates, "frozen where they leaned against the cellar wall. The missus is terrified 'bout how we'll make it to spring if our root cellar don't do its job."

Anecdotes of spoiled stores are rippling through the tavern, now.

"Harumph!" A surly dwarf shakes his head.

"What is it, Bristletuch?" a balding man snaps, "You have something you want to share?"

"Ye with yer heads in the clouds," Bristletuch grumbles, "Ye don't know anything about the earth below your own feet!"

"What're you on about?" Mrs. Grundley shouts from the back of the room.

"Yer root cellar works 'cause it stays just out of frost's reach," the dwarf explains, "It keeps cool, yeah, but it don't freeze.

"When Lathander slumbers, the frost, she digs into the earth, starting the rot, ending the cycle, as ye know. The frost is like the fingers of Dumathoin. It covets the very Heart of the World and will drive for it, deeper and deeper. Such is its nature, mind.

"When the Morninglord awakens, He drives the frost back with His blessing and the cycle continues." The dwarf takes a deep draught of his ale, "Y'all should plant something in His honour, as a show of thanks, should you make it to see His return."

Bristletuch's explanation is met by blank stares. An unidentifiable voice mutters, "Dwarven fiddle-faddle."

"Do y'all know nothing?" Bristletuch blusters, "The frost is deeper than you've ever known. Yer cellars ain't deep enough!"

"I suppose we should all start digging out our cellars then?" Greggory Honeypot calls out and the tavern breaks out into sarcastic laughter.

"Aye," the dwarf retorts, "if ye wanna break yer backs chippin' away at frozen dirt. 'S'not what a dwarf'd do, though."

"And what would a dwarf do?" Greggory huffs. His voice is insolent, but his eyes are eager. Maybe even desperate.

The tavern quiets. Everyone can hear the bottom of Bristletuch's stein scrape the surface of the table as he calmly picks it up and takes another languid draught.

"Ye find a deep place," he begins slowly, quietly, his fingers splayed out over the table before him. "A place out of frost's reach where ye canna feel the air move. Best it has water, even better if'n that water's movin'.

"Ye put down some wood near the water, not touching the water, mind, but near it. Ye pack yer food in sacks and ye lay it 'pon the wood. By Vergadain, that food'll not freeze by any natural means."

Bristletuch pours the last from his stein down his throat, stands and replaces his absurdly broad hat upon his head. "And now, children, class is dismissed," he says as he touches his hat's brim and exits the silent Stonehill Inn.