We spent the next few days tweaking the exact recipe for our salty gose. There were a few extra steps beyond just adding yogourt at the boil, like mixing a proper starter and testing different yogourts to get a good strain of bacteria. A bad strain could make the sour taste like vomit, and we really didn’t want that, even though it would technically bring our sour closer to the taste of standard Sacred Brew!

Bran and Darrel continued to bring us salty dish after salty dish. We ate so much salt it was an assault to our senses. It was enough that I felt like a saltier dog than Kirk! And when we finally got an unsalted dish I turned somersalts. It got to the point that everyone else was avoiding the office, because I’d pepper them with puns to celebrate the season of the Octamillenial.

I could do this all day, but Annie would get sour. Nyuck.

All good things must come to an end, and soon a few different attempts were awaiting fermentation. I got Whistlemop to make us a series of carboys – large glass jugs – so we could do some small batches, rather than wasting the full tank space on possible duds.

Carboy brewing really took me back to my college days, just sitting in the garage and shootin’ the shit with Caroline or my business buddies. Talking about Nirvana and imagining we were cool.

We also made our first Light Brew, using the Ancestral Seed Master Brewer Schist had gifted us. Annie actually wept tears of joy when we made it and set it to ferment in one of the cooled tanks. It would take at least a month to ferment, but it would be worth it!

In the end we had five different sour goses and five plain jane goses fermenting against the wall.

Of course, things didn’t stop just because we had competition stuff to do! The regular beers still needed to be brewed and bottled, the tavern still had to be run, and everyone else still had their lives to live.

While everyone did the day-to-day, I spent some time drying out my precioussssss hops in the oven. I washed my hands in gollumy glee as I watched them baking. Wet-hops, as fresh hops were called, weren’t the best for brewing unless they were fresh, fresh, and I didn’t want my first experience with them marred by improper storage.

As for my brother, he was finally going to become *sniff* a real Kinshasa adventurer! Which was why one fine morning I found myself giving him a fashion once-over, before he went to do the practical test against the shellback. His team had passed the written test with flying colours, so only the battle with the beastie remained.

“Ach, Pete. Stop with tha bloody theatrics!!” Balin grumped. “Argghh! Quit it!!!”

He tried to shuffle aside as I applied some of the old spit and polish to his golden armour.

“We need you looking your best today Balin! You’re going to be impressing the judges with your armaments, skill of arms, strength of arms, and your fancy armour! That’s a lot of arms, so I’m lending you a hand to go with them.”

“... yer daft, ya know that?”

“Shuddup and turn to the left. How did you get gravy oil on magically apparating plate!?”

Balin muttered, but turned dutifully to let me get at what looked like the remains of biscuits, gravy, and fried chicken. Bran had been experimenting with fried foods recently, from fried chicken, to fried goat, to fried mushrooms. Since we were still the only ones really using deep-frying, he considered it an edge in the saltiness competition.

Personally, I could eat fried food all day, especially now that the brews were getting halfway tolerable with Annie’s Goldstone Bitters.

I finished dusting him off, then considered the gleaming God that stood before me. I averted my eyes. “Ugh, Tiara’s Shiny Golden Teats yer so godsdamn pretty in this armor.”

Balin twiddled his handlebar moustache proudly. “Aye, that I am.”

“Are you sure we can’t come and watch?”

Balin shook his head sadly. “It’ll be a couple’a hours, and there’s no audience allowed. Lotsa reasons fer that.”

“Ah well. I guess Richter, Johnsson, Aqua and I can go on our little jaunt in the meantime. We’ll come and meet you at the guild when we’re done. Annie will be meeting us there too. Then we can all go crash an axe-throwing range or something.”

“You’ll stay safe? And bring yer warhammer with ya.”

“Relax! We’re just going to tha pub. And you have that fancy [Party-Finder] thing to sniff me out if something happens.”

“Yer goin’ to yer competitor’s pub.” Balin chided. “It could be dangerous.”

“Eh, I don’t think they’ll try anything with the eyes of the entire city on them. Richter learned a defensive spell, just in case, and we’ll all be armed.”

“Where is it?”

“In Yellowwall, not far from Deepcore Dungeon, actually. They’ve been focusing on servin’ adventurers.”

Balin’s brows furrowed with thought. “But lotsa adventurers won’t be able ta vote. Only Kinshasan residents can.”

I snickered. “Seems like it's in the bag.”

“They made it to tha second round, they must be good brewers”

“Oh, no doubt. But the first round was just a general test. The voting thing was unexpected, and may cost them.”

“Ach. I’ve been seein’ those, what’d they call ‘em, votin’ booths around tha city. Seems like a lot of work fer a one time-thing.”

I drummed my fingers on his massive shoulder-pads. “Hmmm… they may not be a one time thing. I think there may be a Chosen in city hall; voting booths are somethin’ from my world.”

Balin gave me a steely look.

I nodded. “Aye. Dunno who, yet. Bando and Johnsson have been spendin’ lots of time with tha’ locals, so I’ve asked them ta look into it.”

“Well, you stay safe. Hopefully there’s no Dungeon Break when yer there.” He adjusted his plate gauntlet and then matched horrified gazes with me. “Godsdamn, now you've got me doin’ it!”

“How was that MY FAULT!?”

—

We took the long way around the dungeon. It took an extra hour, but we weren’t taking any chances.

Stolen story; please report.

Kirk ended up tagging along. We’d originally planned to go sans giant, but Kirk convinced us that humans were common enough around Deepcore Dungeon that he wouldn’t be out of place.

Penelope came as well. She convinced us with cuteness. And threats of bleating violence.

Kirk turned out to be correct, as the number of giants and other races in sight increased as we approached the pub. I stopped counting around fifty giants and a dozen elves. They were the general eclectic fare I’d come to expect of adventurers, with varying armours, clothes, and magic items.

The neighbourhood was standard Yellowall, with a mishmash of multi-storey dilapidated and ramshackle houses. This close to the dungeon was especially bad, and most of the buildings looked ready to collapse even without monstrous help.

Lucky Jean’s wasn’t so much a hole in the wall, as a hole in the roof. A creaky ramp led up to an open hatch, with raucous shouting and hollering coming from inside. Light streamed out of the windows above us, along with the occasional tossed dwarf.

Kirk approved. “Easy to get a good distance on the toss with a setup like this.”

“Easy ta defend against diggin’ monsters, too.” Richter mused. “So long as ‘dey don’t just knock it over.”

The ramp had an odd mottled look to it, which on closer examination resolved into a thick mat of peanut shells. I cracked a laugh.

“Whuzzat, Pete?” Johnsson asked, looking askance at me. He was sweaty and nervous, as he was relatively new to espionage. I was an old hand at it after scoping out the restaurants of Minnova with Bran back in the day.

“It reminds me of a pub back home,” I said, pointing to the shells. “Big Bad John’s on Van-Isle. They had peanut shells on the floor, just like that.”

“Peanut shells?” Johnsson asked, staring at them.

“You lot ‘ave only had de Greentree tree nuts!” Richter said, a smile across his face. “These are a South Erden specialty. Ya got tha name right for once Pete. Peanuts! Me mum used ta crush’em and put em in her tasty goat curry.”

Penelope knickered angrily, and we all stared at her.

“I know she’s smart…” Aqua muttered. “But is she actually understanding what we’re talking about?”

As if to answer, Penelope flicked her tail and sauntered into the pub, the four of us watching her sashay away like a cat who’d just flicked an expensive vase off the counter.

There was a brief knot of silence until Kirk cleared his throat. “*Ahem* Well, far be it from me to let a princess walk into a pub unaccompanied.” He strode up the ramp and we all followed after.

The peanut shells continued into the main building, making a coat so thick you couldn’t see the floor. The pub was rip-roaring, with a bard playing the traditional dwarven bagpipes in a back corner. He had a one-armed giant accompanying him on a drum set. The combination made for a heady pub song. I would’ve normally sung along, but we had a goat to save.

Or rather… the goat had saved us. Seats, that was.

Penelope had browbeat a pair of drunken dwarves out of a corner booth, and was proudly sitting in the middle seat, a smug look on her face.

We sidled to either side of her. Richter and Johnsson on the left, and Kirk and I on her right, leaving Aqua to glare accusingly at the full booth.

“Sorry, you won’t fit.” I shrugged.

“Aye. It’s all those sweets you and Opal have been eatin’.” Johnsson snickered.

Richter shuffled sideways to avoid the splash zone as Aqua menacingly pulled a small truncheon off her belt.

We ignored Johnson’s piteous screams as we read over the menu on the table. This was more of a bar than a pub, as outside of the peanuts and the usual dwarven snack of pickles, there wasn’t anything else other than the beer.

They had True Brew, and Light Brew.

So far, so normal.

But then they also had a small selection of their own brews! The times, they were a’ changin’!

They had an ale called Golden Brew, which I suspected was a rip-off of our liquid gold. If so, I'd need to… do nothing. Half the point of all this rigmarole was to convince the other breweries to try new recipes. I was glad to see it was working.

And they had a signature light brew they called Lucky.

By all tha’ bits o’ tha Gods, they had freaking LUCKY!!!

That was what it was called! Lucky! Lucky Lager!!! The buck-a-beer All-Canadian brew of the drunken hoser!

“The drink menu says that Lucky grants the Minor Luck Condition.” Aqua said as she read over the menu. “That’s interesting. It would explain why they’re so popular with adventurers. Minor Luck doesn’t really do much, but if you’re living on the edge of a knife, it could be enough to be the difference between life and death. I wonder how they do it?”

“That must be how they won tha preliminary contest back in their hometown,” Johnsson mused. “Beer that gives you a bit a’ luck to help find a new gold vein, or survive a hard fight, or craft somethin’ just a little better? Every dwarf loves a bit of luck. I could see something like that winnin’ the contest for ‘defines a dwarf’ if every other brewery just put out a regular brew.”

I immediately demanded a whole keg when the red-bearded barmaid came to get our drink orders. I may have been manic while ordering. Kirk and Aqua ordered the Golden Brew, Richter ordered a True Brew, and Johnsson asked for some ice for his bruises. Then Penelope pointed a dainty hoof at the menu and gave a commanding bleat. The barmaid shot us a questioning look and we shrugged as one.

“Bring her a Golden Brew in a bowl.” Aqua muttered. She was currently seated in Johnsson’s old spot, Johnsson having decided to hold up the wall next to the table.

As the barmaid left with our order, Richter turned to me with a concerned look. “Pete? Why do ya look like a miner who found himself a freschie?”

“They have Lucky Lager!” I squealed with glee.

“And?”

“It’s something from back home!”

“Ah! Yer HOME ya mean?” He waggled his eyebrows and pointed at Kirk, indicating what he really meant.

“Aye.”

“Don’t you objectify me.” Kirk objected.

Richter ignored him. “Was it yer favourite brew?”

“Hah! No, more like least favourite pig swill, but it was cheap and plentiful. A quick inexpensive way to get drunk in college. I’ll bet you the dwarven version tastes just as bad.”

Conversation ceased as I practically vibrated in my seat. Everyone gave me side-eye, including the bloody goat.

The barmaid returned with a platter of drinks, as well as a bowl of peanuts and some pickles. She was accompanied by an tanned easterner with a bright ginger beard and an even brighter smile. He wore an armoured kilt, along with a leather cuirass, and a set of horn-rimmed glasses. He was carrying a cleaning cloth on his belt, and a fine dagger in a sheath on his hip.

“Hallo, you lot. Is that goat yers?” He asked, brightly, pointing at Penelope. He had a clear and chipper easterner accent, much like Sam’s.

*Baaah!!* [Translated From Prima Donna Goat] “I am a lady, not some mere ‘that goat’!”

“Yes, is that a problem?” Aqua asked.

“Nope, Appletina here was just saying there was somethin’ interestin’ happenin’, ya’know?” He patted the barmaid on the back and she nodded.

“Aye, a unigoat orderin’ a brew straight from the menu! It was sure somethin’ to see!”

He gave us a flashing grin. “I’m Master Brewer Herder, the owner of this establishment, but you can call me Ironbellows when yer drinkin’ my beer. Welcome to Lucky Jean’s! Who might you folk be?”

Appletina and Ironbellows were odd names for dwarves. More gnomish, I would’ve thought. I had heard that the gnomes had a bigger influence on the development of the East, so that was one possible explanation.

I pointed at Penelope. “That’s, uh, Pen, and I’m Peede. Nica ta meet ya.” I barely remembered in time that we were technically here incognito. Thankfully, I kept my tongue from betraying our true names.

I held out my hand and we bumped fists. As we did, he gave me a focused look that I’d come to associate with someone using an Ability. I managed to hold back a frown; that was pretty rude to do on a friendly first meeting.

He looked from Kirk, to Penelope, to Aqua, to Richter, and back to me, and his smile widened even further. “You must be from the Thirsty Goat brewpub! Here to scope out your competition!”

“Uh…” Shit! We were made! Abort! Abort! Abort!

“Which would make you… Brewer Roughtuff,” he continued, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, “and you’re an Otherworlder, aren’t you.”

Six pairs of wide eyes stared at him in shocked silence.

*BAAAAHHH!* [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] “He knows too much to live!!”