The aroma of fresh-cooked meat, the bouquet of various wines and ales, and the enticing laughter of a dozen cheerful conversations would have been much more enjoyable if the dwarf hadn’t been lying flat on his back. His rugged face was edged by a trimmed rusty-red beard less than a hand in length, short enough that many non-dwarves mistook him for a surprisingly muscular female dwarf. But such an appraisal would have been dissuaded as soon as they heard his deep, gravelly voice. His current position hadn’t resulted from combat, nor from a fall. In fact, he couldn’t recall why it was that he’d come to be lying here–

And where exactly was here?

“You’re in the Otherworld,” an even deeper voice answered from somewhere nearby. “And to answer your other question, I brought you here.”

The dwarf picked up his head and peered around.

He lay in the middle of a cobblestone road, wide enough for two carts to pass abreast, though thankfully none of them had chosen this particular moment to do so. Modest two- and three-story buildings, mostly wattle and daub construction, lined both sides of the avenue, which was packed with pedestrians and the occasional rider. Vendors plied their wares from shop doorways or from carts close under an overhang here and there. And this street poured into another street, even bigger, with even more passersby.

There were other dwarves mingling through the crowds, as well as elves, half-elves, halflings, dozens of humans, even a few orcs and goblins, and more exotic species he couldn’t quite identify. There were two qualities of this place that immediately impressed themselves on the dwarf’s mind:

The town was surprisingly clean. There were no horse droppings, beggar’s leftovers, or trash of any kind filling the nooks and crannies of the place, the way they did in every other “normal” town he’d ever known.

Most striking of all was the fact that every single individual, young or old, rich or poor, buyer, seller, visitor or resident, was happy. Everyone wore a wide smile. Every conversation was filled with bits of laughter. Even the animals, it seemed, were cheerful, or at least content. 

And the biggest smile graced the face of the massive fellow sitting on a large wooden bench beside him, a dwarf of extreme size, as tall as any troll he’d ever seen, and as wide as any barrel. His plate mail gleamed like the rarest mithril. His long gray beard hung below a wide blue belt, and his eyebrows were as thick and bushy as most beards. He propped one elbow on a warhammer as big as a small tree, and in his other hand he held a foaming tankard that could have quenched the thirst of a dozen warriors. 

“And why shouldn’t they be smiling?” the jovial dwarf added. “Considering where they are and all.”

The supine dwarf propped himself up on his elbows. “And where exactly is that?” he asked, with an out-of-place grumble. 

Swinging his tankard for emphasis, the jovial one roared, “Why, you’re in the Otherworld, m’lad!” He raised the drink to the folk around him, and each one replied with equal merriment. 

The dwarf lying in the street scoffed. “Fergive me if’n I don’t see what all there is t’ be joyful about.” He set about picking himself up, getting to his knees first, then managing to gain his feet with a groan. He wore no armor, which was unusual for him, and was clad only in breeches and a leather vest over a simple homespun shirt, with standard black walking boots. He noticed that on his head sat a gaily colored red-and-green pointed cap, a bycocket, which he instantly grabbed and tossed grumpily aside.

As he did, the larger dwarf laughed, and the sparkle in his voice almost compelled the grumpy one to join him. Almost. “Come now, Master Dwarf, certainly there is much to be cheerful about. You are, after all, in the presence of your greatest hero.” The sparkle in his voice matched the twinkle in his eye.

“So, yer the feller that invented beer?” the smaller dwarf joked. Then, with the joke still lingering in his thoughts, he realized–

“My god!” the dwarf exclaimed. “You’re Moradin!”

“Literally and figuratively, my good fellow,” the jovial one replied, and did a slight bow, raising his tankard again. “And you are Pellanor, the brave and fearless warrior about whom I’ve heard so much.”

The smaller dwarf paused. “Pellanor.” He turned the name over and over in his head. The name did sound familiar, but it seemed as out-of-place as the ridiculous clothes he wore. 

The one who called himself Moradin chuckled again, a sound that seemed to bring a warm and soothing breeze to every banner and stall shade. “My apologies. I thought you’d enjoy a bit of a change of pace. Here.” And with another nod, the smaller dwarf named Pellanor found he was now garbed in his normal adventuring gear: a chainmail shirt and steel helm to match, sturdy hobnailed boots, a backpack and belt pouch, and a dirk thrust into a well-worn sheath. The only thing missing was–

“Ah, yes, your weapon,” the Moradin figure replied. “I was getting to that.” He reached up with his free hand, his elbow still propping the warhammer in place, and pulled seemingly from the air itself a normal-sized tankard for Pellanor. “Let’s talk a bit first, shall we?”

He offered it to the smaller dwarf, though it seemed like a child’s plaything in the God’s hand. Pellanor realized immediately that he had a powerful thirst, but then as he patted his pouch, also realized he had no coins to pay for it. 

Moradin laughed again, and every doubt and care in Pellanor’s mind seemed to melt away. “Don't worry about paying for things up here, lad. Everything in the Otherworld is free!”

“Guess that’s why everyone is so damn cheerful,” Pellanor commented, looking about.

Moradin saluted with his slightly raised tankard. “Now you’re catching on.”

Pellanor cautiously took a sip from his own tankard. The beverage was cool and sweet, like a mixture of honeyed mead and Springwine, with a hint of berries and mint-ice. He’d never in his life experienced such a wonderful concoction. He took a deeper draught, and the drink poured into his body and seemed to illuminate his very soul. His grumpiness vanished like frost on a sunlit morning. 

“One of my own mixtures,” Moradin said, with a slight wink. “I call it, ‘The Warrior’s Relief.’ Guaranteed to heal every injury, soothe every doubt, and strengthen even the weakest of spines.”

Wiping the foam away from his lips, Pellanor spoke up. “So, what did you call this place? And why am I here?”