Malt and I ran around a corner and smack dab into a grumble of angry dwarves. Their swollen red lips caused them to blubber and spit as they wrestled in the middle of the street. Thankfully, they were too busy fighting each other to pay us much mind. That didn’t stop a couple from taking swings at us as we passed, but a few ‘warning taps’ from my warhammer using [Basic Slash] took care of that.

The market had been transformed from its earlier fun and cheer. Where before there’d been a long street of bazaars and open shop-fronts, there were now ripped up tents and foreboding metal gates. The cobbles were covered variously with beer and comatose red-lipped red-eyed dwarves. The occasional gnome peppered awnings and roofs, as they made quite a bit more distance on the toss. It looked like a warzone.

“You seem very level-headed about all this.” Malt commented.

“I’ve seen similar, and I'm trying to work on my perspective of late. Therapist's orders. ‘Take things in stride as they come and avoid getting bogged down’.”

“Good advice! What are you thinking about right now, if you don't mind me asking?”

“How did this happen?” I hissed, as we ducked into a doorway to avoid another band of roving drunks. They challenged a nearby grumble to a game of rock, pick, dwarf that quickly devolved into everyone throwing rocks, picks, and dwarves at each other.

“Are you askin’ ‘cause you don’t know, or was that rhetorical?” Malt chuckled as a screaming gnome flew past at escape velocity.

“Mostly rhetorical.”

“Well, in my opinion, the Dragonator definitely played a part. I’ve never seen an entire crowd get drunk all at once like that.”

“Oh, it’s all my fault, sure. This didn’t happen when we drank it at the Goat!”

“You probably only drank small amounts, and never mixed it with other brews.”

“So it’s Schist’s fault then, I can live with that. Well, and Whistlemop’s. I told him we needed six teams! More, even!”

We ducked down and watched in silence as a group of guards arrived and swept up the rioters. There was a brief, but fierce struggle, with the mob swinging their fists at random, and the guard moving with organized efficiency.

The fight was one sided and brutal, and the guards took the final dwarf out in less than a minute. So far we hadn’t seen serious injuries, but there would be a few people waking up with black eyes and broken limbs in the morning.

“Should we stick with ‘em?” I asked, elbowing Malt and pointing at the guards.

“No. They’re only here to subdue everyone moving about and quell the fighting. Drunken rabbles happen from time to time – the Bracken Brawl of 7232 comes to mind – but with so many people in the city, the nobility isn’t going to want this to spread.”

We waited until the guards were out of sight, then vaulted an overturned carriage, crunched through a mess of spilled cabbages, dodged the frothing and recognizable cabbage seller, and then sprinted in the direction where we’d last heard Annie.

“It almost looks like the Red Rage…” Malt mused. “By why? And why're their lips all swollen like that?”

“I can answer that one, did you try Schist’s beer?”

Malt shook his head. “No, I never had a chance.”

“Lucky you.”

—

One Hour Earlier

There was concerned muttering in the crowd until Draconis finally staggered to his feet. He shook his head and groggily stumbled back onto the cart with Johnsson’s help.

The market was silent as the legend stared blankly at his discarded mug. Then he looked out over the multitude and roared, “Bloody Dragonator hits harder than a lariat to the head from that bastard, Craggy Craig! HAHA!”

His bagpipers spun back up with fire and fury as the crowd cheered. Richter sent up a refilled mug, and Draconis alternated taking tiny sips and blowing smoke overhead.

I sighed with relief as the onlookers broke into excited chatter and lined up to start buying bottles of Dragonator. That could’ve gone badly, but Draconis was ever the professional show-dwarf.

Speaking of show business, I spotted a cloaked figure accompanied by a well-dressed elf circling our tent. I waved at the pair, and they walked over.

“Hey Pete! Good show!” Berry called.

“Thanks! Glad you could make it!”

Joseph glanced over our wares and smiled. “You made quite a lot of beer in the short amount of time you had. That bodes well for our business arrangement.”

“Absolutely. Are ya sure it’ll actually sell in Awemedinand?”

“When you live as long as an elf does, you like to try new things. Even the best wine in the world can become droll when you drink it enough.”

Berry shook her head. “Based on what I’ve heard around the embassy, not everyone agrees with you on that, Joseph.”

Joseph laughed. “Hah! You should see some of the things older elves get up to!”

“I’m more worried about some of tha more… recalcitrant dwarves takin’ umbridge with us shippin’ beer to the elves.” I pointed to a knot of fighting in the back of the line. Some greybeards were fighting a pair of our adventurer guards. The elderly dwarves were shrieking about the ‘sacrilege against the Sacred Brew’.

Joseph shrugged. “Which is why I asked for a smaller shipment size. It was hard enough getting the permit for even that amount.”

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“I just hope it donnae cause more problems.” I sighed.

I offered some Dragonator to the pair, and Joseph took me up on it. He drank the beer in bits and pieces, swishing it in his mouth and blowing smoke rings.

“This will sell incredibly well, Pete.” He pointed at a smoke ring that he’d shot overhead. “Smoking is a dangerous pastime for our race, so being able to blow smoke like this while enjoying a good drink… you may have a bigger hit on your hands than you expect.”

“Why thank you, Ambassador. I’d be more than happy to discuss another import arrangement. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I would’ve loved to stay and chat, but I had to help keep the line organized. Everyone insisted on popping their bottles and drinking right away, which meant unconscious dwarves kept holding up the line.

Soon, our first customers – waking up tipsy from the high ABV – began drunkenly singing and celebrating as joyful laughter filled the market.

The odd drunken ne’er do well sailed overhead, as the crowd grew larger and larger. Our adventuring teams were quickly overwhelmed as the pushing and shoving grew more insistent, and the number of incensed greybeards increased. It hadn’t been quite this bad at our last release, and I had to assume it was the general atmosphere of the city combined with how different Dragonator was from regular beer.

I paused in my current job of stuffing drunkies in a barrel, and watched with concern as a fight with actual Abilities being tossed around broke out. A Black Robed Master Brewer had engaged one of our adventuring teams and was launching glowing strikes with his mace. The adventurers countered with Abilities of their own, and their superior experience and combat oriented Titles quickly ended the fight.

“See,” I told a horrified Whistlemop, who was standing nearby. “You didn’t hire enough guards.”

“It wasn’t like this last time!!”

“Our beer didn't smoke last time! It was just salty!”

It was at this point that Bando arrived on the scene, a red bottle in hand. “Brewer Pete! I have it!”

“Excellent, gimmie!” I took the bottle and held it up to examine. It was a bright reddish-brown glass bottle, in the now dwarven-standard Belgian style and a logo emblazoned on the label. It was a simplistic rendering of the Redwall docks, with water flowing beneath them, and a single door set in the cliffs above.

It was an idyllic scene that I’d seen just a couple weeks ago. With one small difference – the docks were on fire.

“Burning Brew.” I read the label aloud for the benefit of my audience. The entire Thirsty Goat crew, plus Whistlemop, Berry, and Joseph leaned in to peer at the bottle.

“Burning Brew?” Johnsson asked.

“It’s magical, right?” Richter murmured with trepidation. “I can see some odd Mana floatin’ in ‘dere. Does it actually burn stuff?”

I activated my [Lesser Manasight] and stared into the bottle. Beer was usually a dark green and blue mix of Aether and Spark Mana. Riverside’s new brew had a dark orange tinge to it on top of the blue, and there were shimmering flecks floating in it.

“What is it?” Annie asked. “Who’s trying first?”

We all stared at the bottle, then as one our eyes tracked to where Penelope was tied to a post near the cooling tent. She and Kirk had worked hard transporting the goods here all morning, and she was having a well deserved rest.

Penelope twitched, feeling our eyes on her. *Baaaaah?* [Translated From Primma Donna Goat] “Why dost thee turn thy peasant gazes upon my royal flesh?”

“Oh no you don’t!” Whistlemop practically shrieked. “If you’re giving that to THAT, I’m locking myself in my wagon until it’s done!:

“We don’t know what it does.” Richter muttered.

“It’s tradition.” Aqua snickered.

“And it could be entertaining.” Kirk agreed.

I shrugged and went to pour the bottle into Penelope’s dish. It streamed out a rich amber, and formed a bright orange foamy head. Behind me, there was a scrabbling noise followed by a *Bang!* as Whistlemop locked himself in his wagon. Penelope sniffed at the beer bubbling in her bowl a few times, then gave it a cautionary slurp. She smacked her lips, shook her body in what I’d swear was a shrug, then lapped up the rest. She then let out a massive burp, spun in place three times, farted in our general direction, then settled back into her bed, ignoring us.

“Is that it?” Johnsson asked, disappointed.

“I think so?” I said, scratching my head. “You can stop being paranoid now, Whistlemop.”

“IT’S NOT PARANOIA IF IT’S REAL!” Whistlemop’s muffled voice came through the door of his wagon, but he didn’t emerge.

We watched Penelope for another minute, but nothing else happened.

“Well, here goes?” I said, and took a sip.

Then screamed in agony.

Inside his cart, Whistlemop whimpered.

—

Back to the present

We tiptoed around a pile of red bottles mixed in amongst green ones. They were discarded in a pile atop the very full blue bin. It was nice to see that even drunk out of their gourds and bouncing around in fiery agony, the local populace were still recycling.

“So Schist really did it, did he?” Malt laughed. “I knew his plans, but I had to wait just like everyone else. I was headed to meet him after I talked with you, actually, but then things went sideways.”

“Yup. He made a magically spicy beer.” I groaned. “And apparently Penelope has a high spice tolerance. She didn’t care, but I did. And let me tell you, I’ve had some spicy stuff.”

I was in fact, a fan of spicy foods. Wasabi chips, currywurst, kimchi, whatever it was, give it to me hot! I always had a bottle of Franks and some Rooster Sauce ready to go. But Burning Brew was something else.

And the craziest part was, the second sip was hotter than the first. Whatever Schist had done made it so that each time you took a drink, it was the hottest thing you’d ever tasted. By the time you finished an entire bottle, which none of us had been crazy enough to try, it was like mainlining lava. The process involved was a good deal more complex than our own alchemical infusion, and possibly the culmination of Schist’s life work.

It definitely met the requirement of ‘hits hard’, and it was going to be hard to beat.

“My best guess is that while Bando was bringing us a bottle of Burning Brew, the same thing was happening around the rest of the Market. All our curious customers were getting so drunk on Dragonator so fast, that they didn’t notice when the spice level of the Burning Brew went above their ability to cope. Some passed out, but some went right into the Red Rage from the pain.”

I pointed at a dwarf lying splayed out across the middle of the road. His lips were so thick and red they were practically purple, and tears stained his cheeks beneath his swollen eyes. He was twitching.

Malt rolled his eyes. “So it is your fault.”

“It’s Schist’s, and I’ll die on that hill.”

“You may yet, if we don’t find Annie soon. I won’t be much help in a fight with these old bones.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I spotted her through some windows back there. She’s just on the other side of that building with a group of survivors.”

“Ah, good. Hurry up. I’d like to go try this Burning Brew! And congratulations on your Dragonator, it seems to be a smashing success!”

“Better get some fast, before they ban us from ever selling it ever again,” I muttered. “After this, I’m going to need more therapy.”

The pair of us bravely snuck through an empty alley, and made it home free.

At least until the bill arrived.