The Hunter’s Guide to Monsters - Chapter 136

“Sir?”

“Hm?” Krow blinked.

“It has been three minutes. You must lay out your verdict or move to the next cask.”

The woman placed a new drinking cup in front of him, lifting the empty one into a tray held by an assistant.

She started to fill it to the brim.

Krow was beginning to think this tradition was a test of how functionally drunk a person could get. He was on the ninth cask already, and his head swirled like a kaleidoscope in a whirlpool.

The dwarvir at the table eyed him with a slightly impressed expression.

Major Intoxication, warned his status, like it had been doing since the fifth cask.

His HP started to slowly tick down by increments of -1 point per second.

And this was only the pregame.

How did people survive this festival?

Did the Zushkenari have extra livers he didn’t know about?

He wouldn’t be surprised if the dwarvir race did, actually.

He took up the pen and copied the words on the appraisal frame to the paper.

[Gedruk Tearoot Liquor]

[Quality: B-][Uncommon]

[A distilled beverage made from the fermented root mash of the Gedruk Tea-vine, which grows symbiotically on the antspider willow tree in the deep jungles of Rombe territory.]

[This variant contains Bloodstripe Lavender flowers and the buds of the poisonous Ballfern. Distilled 50 years ago, during the Ten-fort Wars in the south of the continent, judging frm the hints of Sweet Valerian in the aftertaste.]

Krow put down the pen, grasped the handles of the drinking cup, and guzzled it down like water.

He carefully put down the cup – the table looked like it was slightly undulating. Who enchanted a table like that? Useless.

The liquor burned; it felt like it exploded an inferno in his gut.

What the hell Norge, even this was programmed in?

You and your creative team sure had a lot of free time…

[Tomb Liquor]

[Quality: E][Unique]

[A distillation made from high-quality grain, though an acquired taste. The name was coined from fist being discovered in the ancient underground mausoleums of Galbrane. The differing composition of soil and rock, as well as the air of the tombs, cause no two types of Tomb Liquor to be the same.]

[This variant has the ‘bloody’ taste of liquor entombed in the redhill area of northern Galbrane. The cool and refreshing fragrance of the liquor indicated it was exhumed from a royal tomb, the distinctive scent being imparted by the rimestone wood from the Glacewoods that traditionally encase the corpses of the Galbrane ruling family. ]

[The gentle earthy smoothness and the amount of ‘fire’ it stokes in the belly indicates an entombing of at least 600 years, but not more than 800.]

Krow put down the pen. The world swayed gently as he did so.

The paper was immediately snatched up by the dwarvir. Several other overseers of this festival tradition crowded behind him and read over his shoulders.

The dwarvir smiled, satisfied. “As expected. There are many interesting participants this year.”

Participants?

The woman straightened, professional smile gaining a tinge of genuineness. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

Krow beamed at them. “I thank you for the invitation. I don’t suppose we can start from the first cask all over again?”

The cost of any one of the ten casks of booze was out of his price range at the moment, but since they were just giving it away for free…

The dwarvir’s laugh boomed across the docks. “You are not the first to ask.”

“But the first to be indulged?”

The dwarvir chuckled. He answered with one word: “No.”

Tsk.

“You wound me. I cannot even go and drown my sorrows.” Krow sighed. After drinking high-end booze, who’d want to drink with cheap alcohol after?

He pressed his fingers against his forehead. Turning on his heel, he strode up the ramp.

On deck, he paused.

Shaded lamps glowed a warm yellow-orange all over the ship, as they hung from the rails and the rigging. With the slight mist that had rolled in with the falling of night, the soft glowing created an almost dreamlike atmosphere.

Several minstrels lounged around the deck, strumming songs. Krow recognized the song – it was fairly popular on the music sites and will be for the next year too. It had been rearranged to strings and woodwinds, then slowed down.

Player Bards then, not minstrels.

Krow stumbled as the ship moved under him. “Whoa, was that me or the ocean?”

Several of the people around chuckled.

“You get used to it,” said one.

Krow grinned at them. “Hope so, because if I don’t it’s going to be a miserable trip.”

He glanced at his status. There was no ‘Seasickness’ notice, so he was in the clear.

Now, the pressing question, where was his room?

The papers Sigram gave him only mentioned he had the seventh starboard passenger cabin. Where were those on a sailing ship?

“Marses…”

“This way.” The Reeve shouldered a path to the rear of the ship. He took a flight of stairs, then a corridor. “Which one is yours?”

“Seventh starboard.”

Marses entered another corridor and then gestured down the row of doors. “These are the starboard upper deck cabins.”

Krow counted to the seventh, then pressed the included token on the door handle. The door opened.

The cabin was crammed with a desk and chair, a bed, a wardrobe, a stuffed sofa, and a bank of overhead cabinets.

There was a tiny bathroom, with the entrance nearly concealed by the wardrobe. There was a single circular window that let moonlight in.

Cozy. He liked it.

“What exactly goes on in a liquor festival?” Krow gave voice to something he’d been wondering since he’d been asked to rate the ten casks of alcohol outside the ship.

“A week of drinking and games, generally.”

“And this ship?”

“Have you ever heard of the Lancras family of Duryndon?”

“…Lancras wine?”

Marses chuckled. “Of course the draculkar knows the wine.”

Krow shrugged. Lancras wine was cheap, strong, and delicious. It became the drink of choice for many of the transmigrated players in western Marfall.

“They also make beer and spirits,” Marses continued. “Every year on the liquor festival, they put up an auction and a contest. The auction offers a chance at rare casks and the contest prize is a recipe. They’re a family that has been making alcoholic beverages for centuries, have perfected many recipes and techniques. The auction and contest are well-attended.”

Krow peered at him through the haze of intoxication. “Did you…enter me in some strange drinking contest?”

“Places on this ship cannot be bought with money or simple influence.”

What?

He was too drunk to engage his brain tonight.

He waited for the vargvir to explain, but Marses only smiled blandly at him.

Krow huffed, reached into his inventory for a General Antidote. “I was hoping to be drunk as can be tonight. That’s gone, Marses. Gone.”

The potion slashed his drunkenness by half.

“Possibly being too drunk on a ship this competitive isn’t a good idea.”

With partially restored mental clarity, Krow grasped the warning.

Oh.

He smiled gratefully at the Reeve. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

Every passenger on the ship likely had passed the liquor identification test outside.

If it got out that Krow had bypassed the trial, he’d be challenged left and right for the whole voyage.

No thanks.

“I didn’t expect you to drink through all the casks. Most people are allowed past the testing area after the sixth, you realize.”

“And turn down all the free drinks? High quality liquor, Marses.”

The Reeve let out a laughing sigh. “To be young again.”

A single loud bell sounded in the night outside the cabin window.

He patted Krow on the shoulder. “The ship is readying. This is where I leave you.”

Krow walked out and watched him debark.

Around him, various people were calling goodbyes to friends or family.

The ship moved away from its berth.

Tvarglad had been his favorite city to visit in another life.

It had been full of energy, when most other cities and towns diminished to shells of themselves during the wars.

He’d never expected that his choice of race meant that Tvarglad, which formerly welcomed him enthusiastically within its walls, would greet him with cool politeness when they met again.

Gah.

He’d planned on sourcing much of his enchanting knowledge and material from Tvarglad.

He’d have to consider other plans now.

The libraries of the Gate-cities were overflowing with books accumulated over millenia, for example. But they weren’t specialized libraries.

Hunting down good enchanter books for his Grimoire in those massive libraries would require work.

Maybe after the Gauntlet…

He’d have more time then.

The ship grew more distant from the docks, and the people on deck started to disperse.

It had been a bittersweet experience, seeing Tvarglad again.

Even if he hadn’t seen much of his old haunts, that was probably for the best.

He made a note to never go to Baraldore if he could help it.

Most of the quests he knew there were generic battle-quests anyway.

Krow watched the lights of the great city of Tvarglad grow dimmer and softer, until the bulk of the city was obscured behind mist and the dark headland.