[Item Consumed]

Consumption of alcoholic beverages should generally be done in moderation to avoid {EMBARRASSMENT}, {SICKNESS} and {HANGOVER}

My eyes shoot open.

A warm liquid travels down my throat.

Enriching.

Enchanting.

I feel…fuzzy.

Cuddly.

As I should.

The world sways around me like a little tapdancing termite.

[Curative Imbibed: Steppe-Broth]

Effect: Aethel's Restoration

[Status Conditions {WEAKNESS}, {NAUSEA}, {CRIPPLE}, {NUMBNESS} NULLIFIED]

[Received Status Condition: TIPSY]

[Coordination: IMPAIRED]

CHANCE OF 25%

DURATION: 1 HR

I paw at the words with a happy little chuckle. Then a mouth full of teeth speaks beside me.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM!?”

Another hairy mouth answers.

“Eh, well – I never did test it on dug before, y’know.”

I flop.

I flounder like a fish. My paws skid around the dirt like I’m trying to walk on an ice rink. I must look like an idiot. But you know something? I don’t care.

“Wh-“ I say, slurring my words. “Wha is thish magic?”

The big bearded giant beams down at me. “Jacob’s Ladder – Year of our Makkar 339. That’s a vintage bottle, that is.”

“You gave alcohol to a dog!?” Swiftrunner screams.

The big guy shrugs. “I guess ah did.”

“You really are trying to kill him!”

“Naaaaaah,” he replies, waving a pudgy hand in front of the wolf’s complaints. “He’ll be fine. Look at ‘im: he’s ‘avin the time o’ his life.”

I spin around and try to catch my little tail. Man, this is fun!

“I feel like a brand-new dog!”

The giant crosses his arms and nods sagely, Swiftrunner’s gaze switching between us like he’s the only sane one in this whole fog-covered field.

“Aye, that’ll do ye right,” the big guy says. “Any practiced Belchometrist swears by Jacob’s Ladder. Best pick-me-up in the business. Cures whatever ails ya. No the cheapest brew, by any means, but worth it when ye come across important travelers on the road.”

I run around Swiftunner a few times and nuzzle against his hind legs.

“Swifty, look!” I cry. “I’m cured! Seriously cured!”

Swiftrunner regards me with curious, narrowed eyes.

“You do seem to be well again,” he says. “Thanks to this man’s magic.”

The big guy shakes his head. “Not magic,” he corrects. “Belchomestry!”

He thuds over to the old birch and removes the spigot, collecting his small bottle now half-filled with amber liquid.

He rubs his hands together, breathes into them, and claps them round the bottle with the strength of a bear catching its prey. But when he closes his eyes and mumbles some kind of incantation, it’s done with care. Almost reverence. And just like a holy priest intoning a prayer, his hands glow around the bottle and radiate a stream of power not unlike my own [Swallow Swipe]

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Through my unending excitement, I chance a cheeky [Snoop] as he unclasps his hands and looks with paternal love on the sloppy amber substance he holds within his bottle.

Item Identified

Salien Blood (FERMENTED)

Properties:

“Ooooooooooh,” I slur. “Thash a d-dang HIC! Dangerous brew, that…”

The big guy smiles. “Oh, aye, little laddie. Ye’ve got a good eye! This right here is the last gift o’ this big gal. The last Salien tree alive an’ kickin’ beyond the Deshaan Demesne. Most folk ain’t able to take the properties of plants and fauna or a big gal like this and turn ‘em ta their advantage. That’s where us Belchometrists come in.”

As I fall on my back and try to catch an invisible butterfly, Swiftrunner clears his throat.

“You…you make alcohol…from plants…”

“Not just any ol booze!” the giant exclaims excitably. “Proper magic elixirs. Brews that’ll snap life back intae ye or – hehe – take it from yer enemies. Bottles that’ll give ye a kick of strength, or petrify yer foes in an instant! Course’ Belchometristry also requires proper stomach strength, and lemme tell ya, after years of serving the Makkar, you better believe ah’ve got some proper strength in me ol’ gut.”

Swiftrunner blinks. “The Makkar?”

“God o’ my people,” the giant explains. “I hail fae the Steppe tribes of Adrian’s Cairn.”

This obviously means something to the stunned Swiftrunner. To me it’s just another funny name.

“Then…then you are far from home, man.”

The giant waves his massive hands and bends down to start petting me. I let him. Oh, I do. I’m so starved for a belly rub that I’d even let a kitten nuzzle me at this point, and between you and me, that is saying something.

“Same as yerself, Mr wolf,” he replies. “But ah’ve gotten ahead of meself. Accept the apologies o’ this old drunken oaf. Me name’s Aethel. Aethel of Clan McDonagh. At yer humble service.”

“Plesh to meet yah, Mr Aeth,” I slurr, enjoying the hell outta this giant’s petting. “I’m Raz. This is Swifty.”

“Swiftrunner,” the white wolf corrects, but the giant simply laughs in response.

“Is this wee guy really the Lightborn?” he asks. “Ah see the sword he carries on his back, sure, but weirder sights we’ve seen in the Steppes. Wouldn’t the old stuffy Greys send their best people ta guide the chosen one on his way? Why’s he hanging aboot with you? Nae offense meant, of course. We respect yer kind in the Steppes.”

Swiftrunner bristled, but I winked at him to tell him we could trust this guy. Booze and pats equals trustworthy in my book. Yes, siree.

“They fell in battle with the Darkseed,” Swiftrunner explains, and as he says these words I feel the giant’s hand tense up for a fraction of a second. “The Lightborn gave his strength to the one who now lies before you.”

“Huh,” Aethel sighs. “They failed.”

He says it with such simplicity that it strikes me even through the haze of my booze-addled brain. Then he looks up at the old birch tree again.

“It’s the natural order o’ this world,” he says, stroking his grizzled beard. “Death an’ rebirth. Seed intae tree, roots intae the earth, growin’ deep an then sendin’ out more seeds. Everything’s a cycle, like.”

He looks down at me and fixes me with his bear like eyes.

“Even you, little guy,” he says, stroking my nose. “If ye are the Lightborn, yer the one that has tae keep the cycle going.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, pawing at his hand. “A big, fancy prophesized hero. So everyone keeps telling me.”

“Don’t knock it,” Aethel replies with a hearty chuckle. “After all, it means ye get to go toe-to-toe with that big bitch. I’d give me one good kidney fer the chance ta whipe the smug smile aff her face.”

“You – you speak of the Darkseed, don’t you?” Swiftrunner asks.

Aethel gives a grave nod.

“You’ve actually seen it?”

“Aye, lad,” Aethel replies. “Every’one close ta the earth knows of her. We knew she was comin’ before she started changin’ up this world. I see her in every dying plant, every withered flower than once bloomed with life, every corrupted face of her servants. She’s out there, deep in the forest of the Demesne, and she’s gatherin’ strength, laughing at us as we try to fight her.”

He clenches his fist, overcome with sudden uproarious fury.

“Ah came here ta get the saps that were left,” he continues. “Ta make sure the special trees and flowers don’t die away. I’m gonna collect ‘em, brew ‘em, and bottle ‘em for all posterity. Collect meself a few seeds along the way to plan ‘em back in the Steppes. Makkar willing, me task is almost done.”

I listen to his story rapt, sympathizing on a certain level. After all, who doesn’t like to see a beautiful flower in bloom? Or smell its perfumed scents during a nice, warm headpat?

Aethel stands, stretches, and offers a massive hand to me.

I look at it, then back at him.

“Eh, human custom,” he explains. “Sorta like a way of showin’ respect, like. Lemme shake yer paw, and say that ah stood back to back with the Lightborn himself and saw what he could do in battle.”

I extend my paw, let him shake it, and then, admittedly a little slower than Swiftrunner, suddenly understand what he just said.

“Uh – battle?”

“Aye, lads,” Aethel says, turning towards the horizon and pointing a pudgy finger at the fog. “We’ve git company.”

We peered together through the gap forming in the world of cloud below our hill and saw the thin silhouette of a woman’s form approach from below.

“Dinnae be fooled, wee yin,” Aethel whispers, if a man his size could ever truly whisper. “This is no ordinary lass.”

He’s right. The silhouette moves with the grace of a practiced dancer through the fog, bringing with her an aura of decay that drained all life from the field around her feet with every step she took.

She is tall, slender, and bearing the bark-skin of my enemies in this world. Yet around her face were locks of twisting vines that moved like sentient little snakes. Her grinning face is crowned with a blooming flower that puffs a hazy, purple cloud into the air above her. The only other thing I notice through my tipsiness is that, where her ears should be, there are nothing more than two torn stubs.

She grins from ear to ear, the two serrated scythes at the end of her arms glinting as she brandishes them in front of her.

The sun begins to die behind the hill.

All of us do nothing but stare as the grinning monster licks her fetid lips.

Then, she speaks:

“Greetings, Lightborn,” she says, making a mocking bow. “You can call me Seneca. Enchante.”