Being escorted felt fundamentally wrong to Faelar Stonefist.

  It wasn't just the presence of the guard; it was the implication. It suggested that he, a dwarf of impeccable (if occasionally flexible) honor, couldn't be relied upon not to immediately start breaking furniture, insulting local deities, or demanding ale at axe-point.

  Which, admittedly, was often true. But it was the implication that rankled.

  His escort was a grim-faced villager named Kael. The man walked with a stiff, pained gait and an expression that suggested he was walking Faelar to his execution rather than the local tavern.

  Elmsworth, naturally, was completely oblivious to the tension. The wizard trotted alongside Faelar, his robes flapping, peppering their silent guard with a relentless stream of questions.

  “Is the structural integrity of these root-based dwellings maintained through natural growth patterns, or do you employ some form of arcane arbor-shaping?” Elmsworth asked, tapping a wall. “The load-bearing capacity of that primary root system appears statistically improbable! Have you conducted stress tests? What is the tensile strength of woven moon-vines? Is it true that the sap is mildly hallucinogenic?”

  “Wizard,” Faelar grumbled, cutting him off as Kael’s hand tightened on his spear. “Give the poor sod a rest. He looks like he’s about to chew through his own spear shaft just to make you stop.”

  Kael just grunted, his eyes fixed forward.

  They arrived at the communal hall. It was a wide, open space built into the tangled, ancient roots of the largest tree in the valley. It wasn't stone—Faelar noted with a sniff of disapproval—but it had a certain solid, earthy presence that wasn't entirely offensive.

  The air inside was cool and damp. It smelled of moss, fermentation, and something vaguely like woodsmoke and ozone. Dim light filtered down from openings high in the root ceiling, supplemented by clusters of softly glowing fungi attached to the walls.

  Villagers sat at rough-hewn wooden tables, nursing pale, faintly luminous drinks. Their conversations were a low, suspicious murmur that quieted instantly as the outsiders entered.

  “Ah! Civilization!” Faelar boomed. His voice shattered the subdued atmosphere like a dropped anvil.

  Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

  Faelar ignored them. He strode towards the counter, a polished curve of ancient, petrified wood that gleamed faintly in the dim light. Behind it stood a stout, cheerful-looking woman with leaves woven into her braided brown hair.

  “Greetings, madam!” Faelar declared, slapping a heavy hand on the bar. “Your finest ale, if you please! My throat is drier than the Ashen Plains after a drake attack, and my companion here,” he gestured vaguely at Elmsworth, who was already poking at a patch of glowing moss on the wall, “could probably use one too. He looks a bit peaky. Needs some iron in his blood.”

  The woman chuckled, a warm, earthy sound. “Welcome to The Bent Root, Master Dwarf. Though I fear I must disappoint you. We have no ale here. Grain is for bread. We brew only the valley’s bounty.”

  Faelar’s face fell. “No ale? None at all? Not even a weak, watered-down human swill? I’m not picky! I’ll drink cooking wine!”

  “Mushroom cider,” she replied, gesturing to the glowing mugs on the counter.

  Faelar looked dubious. He eyed the pale blue, faintly luminous liquid. “Mushroom… cider?”

  He leaned in and sniffed. It smelled of damp earth, crisp apples, and… static electricity. It smelled like a thunderstorm trapped in a keg.

  “You drink fungus juice?” Faelar asked, horrified. “What in the seven hells is wrong with you people?”

  “It’s brewed from the Blue Cap mushrooms that grow wild by the stream,” she explained patiently. “It has a… unique effect. Very refreshing.”

  “Effect?” Faelar’s interest was immediately piqued. His eyes lit up like forge fires. “What kind of effect? Does it make you stronger? See through walls? Sprout wings? Grow a second beard?”

  “Nothing quite so dramatic,” she said with a knowing wink. She filled a large clay mug with the glowing blue liquid and slid it towards him. “Try it and see.”

  Faelar picked up the mug. He eyed the contents. It swirled with a pearlescent sheen.

  “Well,” he muttered. “When in a hole full of leaf-wearers…”

  He took a cautious sip.

  The liquid hit his tongue. It wasn't just cold; it was electric. It tingled. It zapped. It tasted like ozone and sugar and deep, rich earth.

  His eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. His eyes widened.

  He took another, much larger gulp, draining half the mug in one go.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “BY MY ANCESTORS’ BEARD!” he roared, slamming the mug down with a force that made the counter rattle and several villagers jump. “THIS IS MAGNIFICENT! IT TASTES LIKE VICTORY AND CHEESE AND A HINT OF LIGHTNING! ANOTHER!”

  The barkeep just smiled and refilled his mug. Faelar took another deep draught, a look of pure, unadulterated bliss spreading across his face.

  As the cider hit his stomach, he felt a warmth spread through his limbs. It wasn't the heavy, sleepy warmth of ale. It was a buzzing, vibrant energy.

  He laughed at a joke he hadn't even told yet.

  He noticed a reflection in a polished metal tray behind the bar. The tips of his beard braids were shimmering.

  He held one up. It was glowing a soft, ethereal blue.

  “I glow!” Faelar shouted. “Hah! It’s like carrying my own bloody lantern! This stuff is amazing!”

  “An emotional bioluminescence! A psycho-chromatic reaction!”

  Elmsworth suddenly appeared at Faelar’s elbow. The wizard had abandoned his inspection of the moss and was now staring at Faelar’s beard with scientific glee.

  “It’s unheard of! The implications are staggering! Faelar, be angry! Quickly! Think of injustice! Think of shoddy craftsmanship!”

  “Oi!” Faelar bristled immediately. “Nobody tells me when to be angry!”

  The blue glow instantly vanished, replaced by a fiery, pulsing orange.

  “Magnificent!” Elmsworth cried, whipping out his notebook. “Note the immediate chromatic shift corresponding to an aggressive emotional state! Now, think of something sad!”

  “Sad?” Faelar frowned. “Like… like running out of this cider?”

  The orange faded, replaced by a dim, pathetic, flickering grey light.

  “Fascinating! The intensity directly correlates to the potency of the emotion!”

  Faelar ignored him. His mind was working on a different problem. He looked at the barkeep. He looked at the kegs behind her.

  He needed reserves. A dwarf always needed reserves.

  “Listen, lass,” he whispered, leaning over the bar. “This is good stuff. Top shelf. I need… provisions. For the road. You wouldn't happen to have a flask I could buy? A big one?”

  “I can sell you a skin,” she said. “But we don't have much to spare.”

  Faelar frowned. He rummaged in his pockets. He felt the coins he had. Not enough for what he wanted. Then his fingers brushed against something hard and scaly.

  He remembered Liam’s loot. The elf had stuffed a handful of “acquisitions” into Faelar’s pack earlier to lighten his own load during the march.

  Faelar pulled out a heavy gold pouch. He dumped it on the counter. Mixed in with the coins were three large, black, shimmering scales from an Ashdrake, and a wicked-looking curved claw from a Grave Badger.

  The barkeep’s eyes went wide. She looked at the scales. “Are those… from a drake?”

  “Aye,” Faelar said casually. “Nasty business. Had to chop it up a bit. And that claw? Pulled it off a badger the size of a pony. Nuisance, really.”

  He pushed the pile forward.

  “I don't just want a skin,” Faelar said. “I want something that can hold a proper dwarven thirst. You got anything… special? Something from the old days?”

  The barkeep looked at the drake scales. They were worth a fortune in a valley that relied on organic armor.

  She reached under the counter. She pulled out a dusty, battered leather flask. It looked old. The leather was dark and stamped with runes Faelar recognized—ancient containment sigils.

  “My grandfather traded for this,” she whispered. “He said it was bottomless. Or near enough. It can hold three full casks of ale without getting any heavier.”

  Faelar’s eyes bulged. “Three… casks?”

  “Aye. But,” she looked sad, “we don’t have three casks of Blue Cap to spare. The harvest was thin this year. I can fill it… maybe a quarter of the way?”

  “I’ll take it!” Faelar snatched the flask. “A quarter is better than none! And I’ll fill the rest with whatever else I find! Water! Soup! Ale! It’s a miracle!”

  He paid her with the gold and the scales. He watched with reverence as she poured pitcher after pitcher of the glowing blue cider into the small mouth of the flask. It swallowed gallon after gallon without bulging.

  It was the most beautiful thing Faelar had ever seen. Even better than the axe. Well, almost.

  He tucked the Magical Flask of Infinite Thirst (as he had just named it) into his tunic, right next to his heart.

  He turned back to Elmsworth. The wizard was still scribbling notes about "chromatic beard variance."

  “Alright, wizard!” Faelar roared, slamming a fresh mug down in front of the old man. “Your turn! You’ve seen the colors! You’ve heard the science! But how can you truly analyze the psycho-chromatic effects without direct, first-hand experiential data? Your methodology is fundamentally flawed! You’re missing the most crucial variable—the subjective qualia of the induced emotional bioluminescence! You must establish a baseline! For science!”

  Elmsworth paused. He looked at the mug of glowing blue liquid. He looked at Faelar’s earnest, drunken face.

  He considered the dwarf’s words. A flaw in his methodology? Experiential data? Subjective qualia?

  The argument, absurd as it was, appealed directly to his scientific ego.

  “Well…” Elmsworth hesitated, stroking his beard. “Strictly speaking, from a standpoint of rigorous empirical investigation… a single, controlled data point would be invaluable for establishing parameters…”

  “Exactly!” Faelar roared triumphantly. “Drink up!”

  Elmsworth picked up the mug. He looked at it as if it were a vial of unstable potion. He took a tiny, tentative sip.

  His eyes widened. He took another.

  A look of profound surprise crossed his face. Then, slowly, a beatific, slightly bewildered smile spread across his features.

  A faint, unpredictable, multi-colored glow began to flicker around his eyebrows. It shifted rapidly from curious green to surprised yellow to a dawning, pleasant pink.

  “Oh my,” Elmsworth giggled. “It tingles in the medulla oblongata!”

  He took a huge gulp.

  Ten minutes later, Elmsworth was leaning heavily on the table, his eyebrows flashing like strobe lights. Faelar was singing a song about a goblin who fell in love with a pickaxe.

  They were the loud, chaotic, glowing center of attention in the entire hall. Everyone was watching them.

  Which meant no one was paying attention to the two anxious-looking villagers huddled at a nearby table, whispering in hushed tones.

  No one except Elmsworth.

  Even while drunk, a part of his mind—honed by years of academic eavesdropping—registered the words.

  “...another patrol failed to report back from the ridge,” one villager whispered. “That makes four now. It has to be the Beast.”

  “Elara refuses to send a larger group,” the other hissed back. “But the Fire Nettle… we need it before the first frost. The winter remedies…”

  “No one who hears its whisper comes back sane. If they come back at all.”

  Elmsworth didn't react outwardly. He was busy trying to catch a bubble floating in his cider. But the information lodged in his brain, floating in the alcohol like a preserved specimen.

  Local apex predator. Codename: Whispering Beast. Location: Ridge. Resource: Fire Nettle. Threat level: High.

  He would tell the Commander. Later. After one more drink.

  “Faelar!” Elmsworth shouted, slamming his empty mug down. “I hypothesize that if I drink another, my ears will turn purple! We must test this!”

  “For science!” Faelar agreed, pouring from a pitcher.

  Kael, their long-suffering escort, buried his face in his hands. It was going to be a very long night.