Frostcleave’s magical axe lay across his lap and kept him cool in the hot tropical sun. Imbued with the power of cold and ice, it was perpetually chill to the touch and the humidity condensed on its blade, dripping slowly into the dwarf’s piña colada, which he had set in the sand next t ohis chair. He noticed the drip, took a drink, then moved the glass to where it would no longer be watered-down. He wiggled his eight remaining toes in the warm beach sand, having lost the others to frostbite in years gone by, and watched the waves roll in.
“Can I get you anything else? Asked the lithe and topless young woman in the grass skirt.
“The opposite of stout” he told her, but she didn’t understand. “Something light, fruity, refreshing…but still alcoholic. This one’s almost done.”
She nodded and left, and he took another long slurp of the piña colada. There were no coconuts in Grazgdar Stronghold. The coastline there was covered with ice and Leviathan bones, not sand and purple shells.
He stood and walked to the rope netting contraption, strung between two palm trees just a few feet away. It cradled him aloft like a caterpillar in a cocoon. When he emerged, he wondered, what would he be? Tan? Happy? Refreshed? He would need a new name. He grasped the magical axe close to his chest, felt its refreshing crispness, and knew who he had always truly been. He was Chill Axe. Frostcleave was just a skin he had worn like so many wold pelts and chain mail. Beneath the warring and the quests and the glory, he had always been Chill Axe.