New songs about dwarves, found in taverns, pubs, and breweries


  • Narfell DM

    On the walls of taverns, breweries, and pubs, are found posters and scriptures containing a fresh song for tavern entertainers to consider and perform. The author of the work is "N. Wingates."


    Ode to Labur

    "Hear tell of a dwarf, with saliva so thick
    It drools to his chin, down from his lips;

    Away it goes, as he spouts, as he spits,
    Whatever he thinks, whenever he thinks it;

    And away, too, as he yells and accuses,
    Whomever he hates, whomever he chooses;

    Yes. At you, at I, at he or at she;
    All his betters. Today, who will it be?

    If it be you, prepare for the flood,
    Of slaver, of spittle, of sputum and spuds,

    He hurls it forth, all wet and all heat,
    In your face, on your arm, or at your feet;

    To cross this dwarf, is to cross someone mad,
    a mistrusting, angry, paranoid cad;

    Be warned! Be aloof, beware and take care,
    'lest his phlegm find you as it crosses the air."



  • Narfell DM

    Upon hearing the next limerick, Nate scoffs and grimaces, and waves his free hand while the other downs a mug. He remarks, after his gulp, "Yegods, what a pain!"

    Before he rises on the table and sings yet again:


    Again, with the wives? This dwarf needs a new muse,
    Something else or other that he can abuse

    Something simple, you see, for his mind tries hard,
    To think any thoughts past thick layers of lard

    That cover his head, all the way down to his toes
    And whatever else in between -- though nobody knows,

    What's past the gut that hangs over his tool,
    Or the flaps of his arse, all covered in stool?

    Who in their right mind would bother to look
    for that little worm, hung like a small hook?

    Send help! Send aide! The dwarf needs arousal,
    To sing any song that isn't spousal.

    And we can't fault the lad for throwing his fist,
    when we know that his own wife doesn't exist.



  • Korak listens to the end, then hurls a meaty fist at whoever was singing Nate’s song, sending them flying across a table to land in a heap against the wall. Korak smacks some coin on the counter and takes up a mug. With the attention on him, he turns to face the crowd to give another limerick in a voice like stone scraping stone.

    Teh walk on these streets the manling is bold
    Here on the docks where his wife earns their gold
    Aye while Nate yammers
    She’ll polish yer hammers
    Just ask fer the Queen of Cuckold

    He raises his mug in a mocking toast to the last line, grins, and chugs the ale.

    “Aye lads, oi might be losin me touch... but the bards wife sure isn’t.”

    Korak makes an obscene gesture with his hand as he laughs raucously and settles down to a table before shouting demands for more ales all around


  • Narfell DM

    Nate, yet again frequenting the dwarven taverns, scoffs and dismissively waves at the latest limerick.

    "He's losing his touch!" he remarks, with a note: "And, I'll have you know, that the bar is set 'low.'"

    He purchases another round for the dwarves who by now may be expecting free drinks from the ongoing exchange.

    All of this, before he sings his next tune, and again, distributes the pamphlets with "N. Wingates":


    King of All Rotters

    His skin is like cobbles. His smile is black
    His teeth smudged with coal, and coated with plaque

    His eyes, terrifying: red and deranged
    If you breathe near him, you taste something strange

    Sound of the dying, cry of the damned?
    No, just his laugh, which makes children scram

    His name is as ugly as his demeanor,
    His scent makes us all wish that'd he'd get cleaner

    Behold! Korak! Korak, King of All Rotters,
    Welcome, charming and pleasant as wastewater.



  • Korak hears of the latest response and shakes his head, finishes his mug of ale, then gathers the patrons for another drunken limerick.

    It’s true surface lass prefer dandies
    Soft as o’ baby and sweet as o’ candy
    But all of us kin
    Know that wide waisted rinn
    Prefer o’ dwarf hard faced and randy

    He bellows a gravelly laugh and buys a round for the other patrons before heading out into the streets with his mighty axe in hand


  • Narfell DM

    Nate guffaws as he hears the latest limerick. When he catches his breath and wipes a tear from his eye, and buys his own round of ales for those who have gathered. He remarks, his tone laden with sarcasm:

    "I admire the imagination,
    Of this dwarf's hope above his station,

    To touch any lass, let alone a bard's wife,
    Who won't run away, or fear for her life.

    Or indeed shout her protests, complaints, and screams.
    He could only ever do so in his dreams."



  • Korak listens until the end of the song, finishes his mug of ale and wipes his filthy arm across his mouth. He slams his mug on the table, hops up from his stool, and faces the crowd to bellow another crude limerick in response.

    Fer any man seekin’ a session
    The bard’s wife has much reception
    But cause we’re coarse
    She won’t lay wit dwarves
    except wit, o’ course, the exceptions.

    Korak thumbs to himself with a nasty grin that reveals his blackened teeth and laughs heartily before buying a round of ale for the patrons.


  • Narfell DM

    As Nate hears about Korak's reply, he scoffs and he laughs, and can't help but smile. "Yes, I've heard of this one," he says, and then takes a drink. "It's funny, you know. Most dwarves are honourable, frank, truth-speaking types. Except for this one and his friend. They're the exceptions."

    Nate proceeds to sing, and subsequently, pamphlets and other ledgers are distributed to the bards of taverns to perform yet another piece (labelled, as usual, "N. Wingates").

    The song goes, and reads:


    The Dwarven Exceptions

    From here to Sundabar, the dwarves are respected
    For the candour and honour that they've collected

    And Narfell's no different; they are much the same
    Except the exceptions. Oh, you know their names

    They don't care for truth. They don't care for candour
    They don't care for facts. And nevermind honour

    They prefer lies. To deceive and to slander
    To slake their egos, for there's none the grander

    They don't care for women -- their chivalry's dead
    If it ever existed in their small heads

    I pity their wives, their lasses and spouses
    Who suffer these males, that spit on their blouses

    I pity too, the brothers, sisters, and friends,
    of these "big, strong, honourable dwarven men"

    Who've no honour, or candour. Only egg on their face
    Who've sullied their houses, their kin and their race.

    Yes, here in Narfell, the dwarves are well respected.
    Except these exceptions, still yet uncorrected.



  • As Korak frequents the pubs on the docks to drink his fill of ale, he chuckles at the song and then responds with a crude limerick.

    Thar once was o’ bardling named Nate
    He thought dealin’ wit devils was great
    The folk o’ the town
    Said wit o’ frown
    “Someone should spit on his mate”

    Korak laughs harshly and buys a round of ale in honor of the dwarf that spit at the “dragon kissin’ - devil fondlers.