> Dois bock mir gut tu!

>

> Phrase

>

> Translation: Two jugs of your best [beer]

>

> Definition: "Dois bock mir gut tu!" is a colloquial expression in Menschen, commonly uttered in taverns and inns when one wishes to partake in the establishment's finest brew. The phrase blends the conviviality of a casual order with a compliment to the brewer's skill, implying that the speaker trusts the establishment's quality. It is a hearty request that reflects the cultural appreciation for good ale and the social bonds formed over shared drinks.

As the end of the moon once again approached, Claramae prepared for her journey to Mir-Sun on her wagon, the nearest town to Faewood. Known for its predominantly human population, Mir-Sun was no stranger to the occasional faerie visitors, like Claramae, who often ventured here only for essential supplies or for the comfort of cold beer.

On this occasion, her shopping list was unusually specific. She needed gasoline, a staple item for her trips, and this time, clothing was also a priority, especially a pair of sturdy boots, some baby clothing and cloth nappies, a lot of them.

The recent and abrupt drop in temperature had made her and her sisters' usual walking barefoot not just uncomfortable but downright impossible.

Things were changing.

Within the borders of Faewood, life flourished as always, shielded beneath a protective dome created by Yeso using the Ormstaad. This barrier made of ley lines insulated the faerie community from the harsh, frigid conditions that gripped the world beyond their forest.

The inhabitants lived in blissful ignorance of the severe cold outside, with only a handful of faeries, Claramae among them, privy to the reality of the situation. Those who ventured beyond the woods required suitable clothing to withstand the chill. And they needed to be prepared in case the Ormstaad ever failed them. After all, Yeso was just a creature like them.

Their Godmama had explicitly instructed all fairies and fae that the Menschen — Yeso, Noctavia, and their son Orlo — were to remain oblivious to these grim developments. She desired for her charges, particularly the young Orlo, to experience the beauty and tranquillity of their first Falls, unmarred by the knowledge of the wintry hardships enveloping the world outside.

Her intention was to shield them. She was lying out of love; Fall was gone, and Winter was staying for good.

As the afternoon waned into evening, with her tasks in Mir-Sun complete, Claramae headed straight for a tavern she knew well. Finding a quiet table, she placed her newly acquired supplies beside her and began to drink from a large beer jug.

The tavern offered a welcome haven from the nipping cold outside. Its warm, inviting atmosphere buzzed with the lively conversations and laughter of its patrons. Within these walls, it seemed the severity of the outside chill was either unknown or willfully ignored.

Indeed, there's a peculiar comfort in ignorance, as Ulencia used to tell her.

Claramae's distinctly faerie features blended seamlessly into the tavern's mostly human crowd, drawing little attention – a fact she greatly appreciated. With her brown hair and moth-like wings that subtly merged with her attire, she could easily pass as the girl next door, a regular in the eyes of the tavern's patrons.

The people here had grown accustomed to her visits, respecting her space and maintaining a courteous distance. That familiar tranquillity, however, was interrupted when a figure cloaked in a Black Robe made a beeline towards her.

Exhaling a sigh of exasperation and taking a hefty gulp from her beer, Claramae snapped, "Get lost!"

"Really?"

"I mean it – get the fuck lost! You really don't want to fuck a faerie," she warned, her patience wearing thin.

"That's how you greet your friends now, Claramae?" the figure in the Black Robe responded with an amused, almost teasing tone.

Claramae's rising anger was stirring her faerie instincts to life. She felt an almost animalistic change taking over, her mouth unnaturally stretching, sharp teeth beginning to emerge from her gums in a visceral response to the frustration boiling within her.

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"I said get lost, or..." she began, her voice as sharp as the teeth now showing.

Her warning, however, faltered as the Magi in the Black Robe drew back his hood, revealing his red skin and prominent horns. "Or what? Do you think your little teeth can harm me? Careful, you might end up hurting yourself, chipping a tooth or two," he jested, his familiar grin broadening.

"How have you been, sweetheart? Still as cranky as ever, I see, or has my absence made your heart grow fonder? You missed me, didn't you? I mean, who wouldn't miss this charming tiefling face?"

"Jaer!" Claramae's expression transformed from irritation to one of surprise and delight as she recognised the tiefling. She leapt up and wrapped him in a warm embrace. "What brings you here?"

"Heard the news about my Commander becoming a father... I wanted to see the little guy for myself, and honestly, I've been missing that old son of a bitch."

"Oh yes, he did! The baby is adorable!" Claramae's voice bubbled with excitement. "Here, sit down, sit! I'm buying the drinks!" She signalled to the barkeeper. "Two jugs of your best and some snacks, please." Settling back into her seat, her spirits evidently lifted, she asked, "So, tell me, how are things with you?"

A brief pause followed, and Jaer's expression sobered, a hint of concern flickering across his face. "Well..."

"It's bad, isn't it?" Claramae was quick to note the change in his demeanour, the worry lines etched on his forehead.

Jaer let out a heavy sigh. "Bad doesn't even begin to cover it," he admitted. "It's like we're living in an actual Nightmare."

"How serious is the situation?" Claramae inquired, her concern evident as she unconsciously reached out to hold Jaer's hand between hers. "Is it true... Did our Dame, did she pass away?"

Jaer nodded somberly. "That's what everyone's saying. Veilla died in delivery, and the baby didn't make it either. And Fiorna..." He hesitated, his voice faltering.

"What about Fiorna? What happened to her?"

"It's hard to say for certain with all the different stories going around," Jaer confessed. "Some claim she threw herself from a window upon hearing of her mother's death. There are others who believe she was killed by a Lamia, that it tore her head right off."

"A Lamia?" Claramae's expression turned to one of bewilderment, the term unfamiliar to her.

"A Nightmare creature, possibly born from necromancy. I can't be sure. They're something new, a disturbing development. These Nightmares have been spreading, proliferating rapidly. They're not particularly difficult to kill, but their numbers just keep growing. It's as if the End of Times is banging on our doorstep."

He reached over, seized Claramae's jug, and took a long swig, seemingly trying to wash down the weight of his words.

"You're here to seek Yeso's help, then?" Claramae asked, her eyes locked on Jaer, searching for answers.

"No, not exactly. I'm not here to fight. I'm... I'm done with all that. I don't have the strength to start over again. I just came to see an old friend, and... then I plan to head to Pollux," Jaer replied, "I just wanted to let Yeso know where he can find me if he needs to."

Claramae's response was a quiet sigh of understanding and sadness. She realised Jaer was accepting the Elven King's invitation, a significant decision marking a new chapter and perhaps an end to an old one.

"This isn't about heroes stepping up to save the day; it's about finding refuge with the people we love, hoping we can weather the storm. We're not facing a war where there's a chance to fight and survive. This... this is something else. I'm not sure we stand a chance unless..."

Claramae absorbed and then asked about their mutual friends, "What's the status with Redfred, Muru, and Mediah?"

"Redfred and Muru were last seen in Whitestone. They're likely more informed about the current state of affairs than we are," Jaer responded. "As for Mediah... he's just being himself." His words were punctuated by a brief, wistful chuckle, a fleeting respite from the otherwise heavy dialogue.

Curious, Claramae pressed on. "What exactly do you mean by that?"

"He's gone to Keblurg."

"Why?"

Jaer's expression grew sombre. "Like I mentioned, in these times, it's about being with those you love."

"You mean Ulencia?" Claramae suddenly made the connection, recalling the past between them. "But didn't she marry someone else?"

"Yes, she did. Xendrix. You remember the human, right?" Jaer confirmed with a nod. "But Mediah... well, he's always followed his own path. And..."

"And what?"

Jaer leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "I have this feeling that we haven't seen the last of Mediah's impact. There's something brewing with him, something significant. I can't put my finger on it, but I think we're going to hear a lot more about him, perhaps in ways we can't even imagine right now. And I think…. I think is because of that boy I am not able to go to Pollux yet. Is a strange saatgut feeling."

Claramae chuckled lightly, "Other than his habit of never knocking on doors, I have no idea what to expect from him."

"That's just it," Jaer said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Mediah does Mediah. Always unpredictable, always on his own terms and never knocks the damn door."

> In the early stages of compiling my memoirs, I discovered that firsthand accounts of the first Winter were inconsistent. None could specify the moon, even less the day it all started. This Winter spread happened gradually across the land, its impact varying in intensity. Faewood, for instance, remained shielded from its worst effects for many Winters, thanks to its protective doom. However, places like Keblurg, Spyles, and Moonbay were not as fortunate, suffering greatly from this cataclysm. The broader implications of this event became apparent to the nations on the Mir-Grande-Carta map only after the death of my parents. It was a pivotal moment that marked a shift in awareness. Historical records state that Fiona Mageschstea's reign lasted forty-four winters, a duration that, in my view, was too long. It was too long for everyone who can still remember it. Too long. ——The Hexe - Book One by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, Special Edition, 555th Summer