You're sat at the bar, when you hear a huge crash.

You throw a look behind you. The crowd has parted. In their midst, stands a dwarf. His clothes are basically rags, and he is unsteady on his feet. Each hand holds a huge, foaming tankard of ale. At his feet lies an unconscious elf, a crimson flood flowing from an obviously broken nose. Nobody dares get close. 

"Pointy-eared prick insulted me," slurs the dwarf.

He shrugs, and slopes away. You're tempted to follow. You've seldom met dwarves before. They usually keep to their homes. Your better judgement kicks your curiosity out of the way.

Perhaps it's safer to speak with the barman.

70 years have passed since Holger was exiled. 

The Steinbrecher clan were the finest miners, smiths and warriors of all the dwarves. Young Holger was already one of their best by the time he was thirty. He was proud of his clan, and proud of himself. 

Pride and youth, though, are a dangerous mix. 

Holger wanted to be the best. He dug faster and deeper than any other dwarf, amassing great treasure, simply because he reached it first. He was a capable warrior, too. No orc pack stood a chance against the Steinbrechers if Holger was fighting. Holger grew boastful. One by one, he challenged and beat every dwarf in mining and fist fighting. With no other dwarves to compete against, he challenged the gods.

Nobody expected one of them to accept.

It was Abbathor, the god of greed, who appeared in the Steinbrechers hall. The others fell back in terror. Only Holger kept his nerve.

The challenge was simple. It would be a test of their mining skill. Each would start at opposite ends of the mountain. The first to emerge from the other side, clutching a sack of treasure from the rocky bowels, would be the victor. If Holger won, he would be lifted up to join the gods. If he lost, Abbathor would crush him. Abbathor was confident. He even gave Holger an advantage; a magical axe, stronger and faster than any which had ever existed in the mortal world.

The contest began.

All that mattered was winning.

Holger dared not stop to rest, not even to wipe the sweat from his brow. There was no time to think of safety or comfort. He hacked furiously at the rock. As the mountain groaned in protest, Holger was deaf to its complaint.

Finally, Holger felt sunlight on his head.

He laughed. There was no sign of Abbathor. Surely he had won. He looked back to his clan in triumph, and that was when Holger realized the truth. His heart missed a beat.

The mountain was reduced to rubble. 

Abbathor appeared at Holger's side

.

"Murdered," the dwarf snarled. 

The god shook his head.

"I haven't mined a single stone today. It was you who brought down the mountain." 

Abbathor snatched the axe from Holger.

"Do you see now, that a mortal cannot wield the power of a god? I said I would crush you if you lost. Well, know that none of your kin made it out alive. That is the price of your arrogance." 

Holger was, indeed, crushed. He was buried by his own remorse. His pride and hope were shattered.

Word spread quickly. The mountain dwarf clans cast Holger out. With nowhere else to go, he was forced to settle amongst humans. 

70 years haven't dulled Holger's burning remorse. He spends his days working at the stone quarry, for pitiful pay. Every evening he squanders his pennies at the inn, just trying to forget. 

He wants nothing more than to be welcomed back by the dwarves one day. Dwarves, though, never give up a grudge, and Holger knows it.

He has no hope left. Maybe, though, a little piece of it might soon find him.