Bloodberry Chowder

The table was a gnarled, monstrous thing. A girthy burgundy oaken titan, hacked from the base of an ancient Hearthwood. There was something strange and morose about celebrating life on something so dead, but this thought never occurred to Rootwarden Dwarves.

The banquet was set. 9 courses prepared by each of the three dwarven families across the realm. Bristle-boar jerky, iron-plate steak, smoked troll tongue, pickled cave-moss, molten honey cake, ruby-beet stew, miners mash, cinder-squash pottage, and bloodberry chowder.

This was served with pints upon pints of molten-stout and gravel grog, frothy strong ales that never stopped flowing. A few of the more seasoned drinkers favoured a potent homebrew called Mithril Moonshine, which as Borin Rockbrow, the village elixirist often said, "kicked like a mirth-ox on heat."

The air was thick with the scent of smoked meats and fermenting ale, a heady aroma that clung to the cobblestone walls like molasses. Old Grumpen Forgehammer, his beard braided with silver filigree, slammed his tankard down with a resounding thud. "I tell ye, it was a beast the size of a griffin, with a temperament to match! Took three of us and a stick o' black powder to take her down!”

Though the night was young by dwarven drinking standards, the first glimmers of dawn dappled in a corner window.

Brynn Silverforge, the village jeweler, slid her seat back and cleared her throat with a loud, "Ahem!", but her Dwarven companions didn't even give a cursory glance. Undeterred, Brynn hopped onto the great table with a hearty grunt, picked up a bowl of bloodberry chowder, and hurled it at the wall, leaving a thick trail of soup and sending shards of splintered porcelain crashing to the floor. The banquet hall fell slack-jawed and silent, save the gentle crackle of the fireplace.

Note: The writing is wholly my work, but I used an AI tool to help me visualise the story. This is the result.