Chapter 116

They Just Want Things From Me

Brewer’s Reputation: 405

Full midday sunlight dappled the forest. The logged clearing was under full sun, and that was where all manner of adventurers toiled. Everyone was breaking camp and packing up. There were all manner of adventurers. Some were cloaked for woodland travel, some were in simple pants and tunics, some were in full battle gear, and some wore long robes befitting monks. As adventurers slowly came around to having nothing more to do and were waiting for others, Abigail and I asked for their help.

The repeating stamp of a battle hammer drove a wooden sign into the earth by the Mist Hidden wall. Alchemists ground ingredients for a white paste which they used to paint a west-pointing arrow onto the sign. The crack of each blow echoed far through the forest.

Abigail thanked the large man who wielded the hammer, and then she smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up.

I turned to the forest of holly trees and began slamming my axe through their trunks. Because the path needed to be wide enough for wagons, I directed others on which trees to fell. With Abigail’s Third Hand attribute beers, divided logs were stacked alongside the trail as an intermittent fence. The youngest folk cleared the trails of branches and holly debris. Elderly offered water and small bites throughout the afternoon as we made our slow way west.

When we were truly in the swing of things, a Brewer approached me. Sweat streamed from his brow. He clutched the translucent blue handle of a summoned axe in his hands.

“An honor to work with you! I’m Matoos. Bangaroo Brewery.”

“Pleasure,” I said.

“I’m on a quest to work with you.”

“Ah, I’m not really… The timing… I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” said Matoos and waved the matter aside like he was tabling it. “Will you be competing this year? The date’s fast approaching.”

“Competing?”

“Exactly, Ha! What could compete with your ethereal stroll beer? The Oude Brewer’s Competitive is going to be different this year, I hear.”

“Oh, the Oude Brewer’s. No, I’m not competing. I didn’t want to last year. It was a mistake.”

Matoos laughed. “A mistake! Yes, your beer deserved a medal higher than gold! They should’ve invented a new medal for such genius!”

I moved to part the branches of the next holly tree, but another man intercepted me.

“Hi,” he said. “Sorry, hi.” He forced a handshake out of me. “Albert. Hi, nice to meet you. I happened to overhear. We should collaborate on a beer, you and I, but we’ll talk about that later, Yeah? Yeah! Oh, Matoos is right; the competitive is going to be different this year. They've invited a monster judge.”

“Monster?” I said.

“Absolutely. It’s all thanks to you. You’ve been collaborating with monsters to make goblin beer. I’m the same way. I try to collaborate as much as I can—it’s the best way to level up, you know. Do you have a favorite style? We should brew something right now!”

“I…”

Albert perceptibly narrowed his eyes like he was assessing me—like he was sensing what my response would be. And before I could say more, he said, “We’ll circle back to that, no worries. Well, since you’ve been collaborating with monsters, collectors have been seeking out the goblin beers in Lavenfauvish at Green-fin. They’ve been trading beers with the goblins, and the goblins have been showing up to taverns around the city. When the Competitive got wind of this, they wanted to include more monsters, so there’s going to be a half-orc judge. I’m no monster, but I can brew some mean stuff, you know. Still, even with my caliber of expertise, I can only shoot so high. We could be an incredible team, you and I.” He nudged me with his elbow while grinning stupidly.

I took a step away. “Huh, a monster judge. This the first?”

Matoos, who had been fidgeting, cleared his throat. “Never seen one before. Trust me, I pay attention to this stuff. It’s good to have someone with all the industry knowledge at their fingertips. If we worked together, I could keep you informed of anything that relates to beer. I know how to live in the woods too, so you wouldn’t need to worry about housing.”

I lifted my chin to the holly tree before us. “Let’s take this guy down. We’ve got a ways to go.”

Albert and Matoos, overzealous, spread their arms and herded folks away from the holly tree. After clipping enough branches to get close enough to the trunk, a single swing took the tree down. Folks moved in to clear the branches and chop the trunk.

I was then approached by a bearded fellow.

“Nice one!” he said. “Name’s Durrell. It’s an honor to finally meet you. Will you accept this beer? It’s a spontaneity berry beer.”

I had almost no choice. He thrust the bottle into my belly and I grabbed it on reflex. The glass of the bottle was lake-blue, and the label read Blueberry Blast. Durrell turned a journal around and held it out for me to read.

“-So that you know what you’re in for,” he said.

His Collector’s Journal showed an illustration of the beer and its foam. Beneath was the description.

[Durrell’s Blueberry Blast]

[Bronze rank. 44/100 Greater Tavern Ale.]

[Brewed by Durrell Scrapper.]

[Spontaneity beer brewed with ripe summer blueberries foraged from the abandoned waste lot in the parish of Reedsborrow. A deep purple foam gives way quickly once poured. The aroma is dominated by fruity notes of blueberries mixed with a stale muskiness. The flavor is dominantly tart and metallic, with a lingering gummy mouthfeel. Low carbonation, almost flat.]

[No attributes.]

I popped the bottle into my inventory, and Durrell’s eyes lit up in a familiar way.

“I appreciate the beer. Did you level up?”

“I’m one of the lucky ones. All my quests require wildland foraging, so my Hawkin the Hermit quest just fit right in.”

Before I could say anything, Durrell turned around and ambled a few steps. He stood akimbo, gazed around, waved at a group of folk, and then set south.

South? That was it? The man had traveled so far just to pass off a bottle for a quest. And not even a single word of gratitude.

The rest of us continued lumbering westward. Holly trees spilled their bright red berries underfoot. Pricked and scratched skin was tended to by a variety of healing means: potions, poultices, pours of beer, and salves... More wooden signs with painted arrows were hammered into the earth. Our pace began to slow, lagging of energy, until Abigail’s voice rose to call for a break.

Cold lunches were prepared and shared. There was an order to everything which must have been born from the group’s travel north. The task of preparing and distributing food was swift. Folk sought me out and offered to share their rations. It was a battle to try and remain beside Abigail. More than a handful of times, adventurers tried to squeeze between us. Abigail found it humorous…

It took a great deal of energy to converse with so many different folk. After only a few hours, I wasn’t the only tired one, and we still had days of trail-management to put behind us. Hoping not to draw out the time our trek would take, I fetched my mana collection jar from Beyond the Cabin and brewed 15.5 gallons of mana ale for everyone. I forged an ethereal label barrel for the beer, set it in the middle of our day-camp, and Abigail fit the barrel with a spigot.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Adventurers lined up to pour a draught of electric blue beer. The chimeric colored barrel amazed nearly everyone and they swarmed the weird light. Some attempted to bottle more than their fair share of the mana beer, which led to shouting and shoving. When those arguments arose, heavily armed men and women stepped in to squash any fights. Further arguing was deterred, and everyone carried on.

With the rest of the daylight, our efforts too carried on. We cleared a path that wound through the forest parallel with the mist. We were cutting down so many trees, but it was all for base building. I would return for the cut logs for winter, which would save me a lot of time later. And at least the logging wasn’t out of control like when the goblins had been destroying acres of woods.

Abigail’s voice once more rose with the first evidence of a peachy dusk. Camp was quickly put up. Cooking fires soon roared. Tents were hastily pitched, and most were crowding the fire where Abigail and I sat.

I had only a moment to listen for the woodland birds before I was swarmed by adventurers. I shook hands, accepted bottles of beer, traded beer, traded hops and other ingredients, and even brewed a few beers for folk.

…I found comfort in the familiarity of brewing beer.

But in all the chaos of dealing with everyone, I was somehow on my feet and separated from Abigail. I’d been pulled away from my campfire.

It was almost night when I finally fought my way back to her. I felt exhausted, and I slumped beside her. She was laughing in the company of two boisterous adventurers.

I arrived just in time to hear the younger man say, “…The whole time, it was in his shoe!”

Abigail and the two men cackled. Seeing Abigail laugh so freely brought a smile out of me. I chuckled along with them.

“Why, if it isn't Hawkin himself!” said the older of the pair. “Sit, sit. Seems as though the mob’s been running you in circles. I’m Alastair, Silver rank Collector with a specialization in beer.”

“Duncan,” the other said. “Nice to finally meet the man in charge! That mana beer you brewed earlier-” He whistled. “-What a beaut of a beer.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Alastair. “Such a vivid hue. By the Gods, your mana beer rivals the depths of any ocean this world has to offer!”

“And the barrel! I didn’t know colors like that even existed… Do you come by those barrels a lot? Have a whole stock of them? I’d like to get my hands on a couple. How much are you asking for one—a fifteen gallon?”

Alastair leaned toward Duncan. “Just as I told you. You’ve only seen a peak of the unimaginable. The colors on the planes in his Ethereal Stroll beer have no equal. That mana barrel was nothing.”

“You can keep blabbering about it all you like,” said Duncan. “I never got a chance at his Ethereal Stroll beer. It sold out immediately. Why would I believe the nonsense everyone was spreading? Colors that don’t exist?” He waved a hand like he was swatting at a fly. “Sounded like pure foolishness to me. But now that I’ve seen one of the barrels with my own eyes, well, I suppose all those lucky folk were telling the truth.”

Alastair seemed to take a bit of an offense to that. “Now, Duncan, I know we’ve only known each other these past few months, but why would I fib?”

Duncan put on a mischievous grin. “We have come to know each other quite well, haven’t we? Then why don’t you help out a new pal by trading one of your vintages for one of Hawkin’s awesome barrels.”

Alastair nearly rose from his seat. “For a vintage! That’s absurd!”

“You see, old man, that’s your problem. You only care about your precious collection. What’s the point of hoarding all that musty old beer if you’re never going to have one?”

“Musty old beer? Ludicrous! You young people are the problem. No concept of value whatsoever.” With that, Alastair crossed his arms and turned slightly to put his back to Duncan.

“Value?” said Duncan. “You’ve only talked about value when it comes to coin. Let me ask you this: Is there anything you value that gold couldn’t be stacked upon?”

Abigail stopped bouncing her leg. Alastair stared at the fire with a faraway gaze. Duncan rubbed his chin. I turned my gaze to the trees around us and the stars.

In the sudden silence, save for the gentle murmur of folk at other campfires, I could discern the sounds of the forest. Beetles clicked, crickets chirped, mayfly’s trilled, and I thought I heard a passing bat squeak a few times.

Ah, but those were the best sounds. They had been new sounds to Barnacle-eyes when she spent her first spring in these woods. And they were all too familiar to Thrush who realized that he often tuned them out. That of course had led to the two of them going on nightly adventures to track down the sources. I chortled when I remembered nearly tripping over Barnacle-eyes who had gone hunting for a neighboring cricket one day…

Abigail must have heard my chortle. Her hand landed gently upon mine.

To Duncan and Alastair I said, “That’s a big question. As for me-”

“-I’ve settled it!” Alastair blurted. “There is something quite dear to me that I’m after.” He rubbed his hands together, and he seemed to become somewhat bashful. “It’s a beer, of course, and it’s rare. A limited edition vintage, signed by the brewer himself.”

Duncan rolled his eyes. “Not at all where I thought you were going with this.”

Alastair softened, and his age could be heard in his voice. “Only one hundred have ever been brewed. And yet, though very rare, it’s not a sought-after beer. The Brewer never amounted to much. One hundred out of one hundred no longer circulate market. They’re either all in the hands of individuals, or they’ve all passed through bladders. My Collector’s Compilation has never failed me.”

“The flappy book you’re always reading? That’s what it tells you?”

“By the gods, you’re a horrible listener. Another trait of youth these days. I suppose I’ll cater to your shortcomings and show you instead.”

Alastair withdrew from his inventory a square tome. It was leatherbound, and the edges were gilded. There were marks which cast small shadows in the edges where it might have banged into the corners of other books. The reflected fire on the gilding looked like flashing brass. A single page smothered a bookmark, and Alastair slipped his finger in with the bookmark and flipped the book open.

Alastair put his fingertip on a page and said, “Look here.”

Duncan scooted to him and craned his neck. “Wow, that’s better than my Collector’s Journal. This dingy thing of yours tells you the edition, whether it’s circulating, discontinued, and the last highest bid.”

I left my seat and leaned around the fire to get a good look. “Handy little tool,” I said. “I wish I-”

Alastair’s brows lifted, and to Duncan he said, “-What I really like about the Compilation are the notes. Take a look.”

The tome was tilted away from my view where Duncan could assume a better view. I returned to my seat, nearly throwing my hands up.

“Note,” read Duncan. “Bottle 83/100 has been marked as beneath system.” And he scratched his head.

Alastair nodded. “Beneath system means that the beer was not tradable by market standards for a variety of reasons. These rejected beers have a chance at winding up in bronze rank loot chests and are most often untraceable. They’re as good as gone as far as collectors are concerned.”

“Oh, I’ve got a ton like that. It’s always me that gets them. Well, what’s this beer of yours called?”

Alastair gazed into the trees behind me. His eyes became wide. He put his hands up as though to paint a picture. “The copper barleywine of Vavkin!”

Duncan leaned away, and stretched. “Oh, that thing. Yeah, I think it’s still kicking around in my inventory. Had a messed up label. Big piece of it was torn off, but I could still read the name of the beer. I remember the very day I got my hands on it.”

“You-you have it?” said Alastair.

Duncan shrugged. “Yup. Been saving it for a special moment. But maybe I’d be up for a trade. How much are you willing to pay for it?”

“Oh, anything! I’ll drop all my coin for it!”

“Well, now that it’s got some value to someone…I’ll need more than that.”

“You mad lad! I won’t go any further unless you show me.”

Duncan whipped out the very beer. The glass of the bottle was olive, and it was warped. The label looked like it had seen some terrible days.

Alastair reached for the bottle, but he stopped short, as though he were afraid to touch it. “By Ughhi! By Potere!” Duncan still held the bottle out, and Alastair slowly hovered his hands over until he gingerly took it. “Indeed, the label was torn. Right here, where the count and signature should be. But this is it! It’s just as I remember. What do you want for it?”

Duncan lifted a brow. “I can’t imagine anything you could trade for a beer this priceless.”

“Duncan, please. We’ve become friends, haven’t we?”

“Then tell me, friend, why is a Collector interested in something like this? Your book said it’s not worth anything, so maybe it's time I take a sip and spare you a bad trade.”

Duncan snatched the bottle and took the cork in one hand. Just as he made to pull the cork-

“-No!” said Alastair, rising from his seat. “No, wait!”

Swallowing his laughter, Duncan said, “Why shouldn’t I pop it?”

“...About two decades ago I laid my hands on one. It was my first barleywine.” Then to Abigail and I, he said, “Barleywines can be very aggressive; very syrupy when young, but very punchy when aged.” He punched his palm. “I chose to keep it in hopes that the brewer would make something of himself. He didn’t. Because the beer didn’t hold much worth, it was an easy decision to open it when my son came of age. Yet sharing this beer with him has grown to become one of my dearest memories. …The house became so quiet after he left…. At any rate, he became wedded last summer, and he and his wife are expecting in a couple of months. I’d like to keep that same beer to share with my grandson when he comes of age.”

Duncan shook his head in what seemed like mock disappointment. “You’ve told me countless stories about the beers you’ve tried, but never this one. Is your memory slipping, old man?”

“Ah, you see, failures aren’t something to flaunt, and I’d judged this side quest to be unachievable, so I’d put it to rest.”

Duncan nodded with gravity. He eyed his friend for a moment, and then he promptly handed the bottle over like it was but a simple flask of water. “It’s all yours.”

Alastair fell to stammering.

“I like you, Alastair. Consider it a fair trade for sharing your story. There’s no charge among friends.”

Alastair bubbled with joy as only an old man could bubble with joy.

Abigail slipped her fingers between mine and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. She smiled with her eyes. Their interaction had warmed her heart, and I was touched to see that.

And while Alastair turned the bottle round and round, speechless, I took in the night sky once more. Another silence had fallen over us, and I could again discern the chorus of nightlife. Every note was a treasure….

“-We’ve certainly gone off trail,” said Duncan. “Haven’t we, Hawkin? Let’s get back to the task at hand! I'd like to purchase one of those ethereal barrels from you. Empty, if that’s all right. That’s some fine art there.”

Alastair’s tongue darted to wet his lip. “As long as we’re trading, I’d like a few bottles of that Ethereal Stroll beer. How about it, young man? Surely, a mighty fine Brewer at your level you must have spare ones in your coffers.”