We rejoin our heroes after cramming sea things and local cultures, and beverages into the appropriate receptacles.
…
Awake we did the next morning with fuzzy recall of this dawn’s eve; upon return to the inn, the ale continued to flow during tournaments of some ancient game involving long sticks and colliding spheroids into pockets strategically placed on the sides and corners of a table. A few natives were rather unamused by our raucous behavior.
Regardless of our state, the journey was yet unfinished. To reach the vineyards of Shafer by 9 bells was our charge.
The fog was less ominous than it seems
Quite kindly, the proprietors of the establishment gave us a full tour culminating in refreshment for all. In this strange region, wine is in fact safer to drink than the water, akin to the beer where us travelers from whence came.
Alas we could stay only long enough to procure a small amount of the life-giving elixir before a new group of travelers appeared and would be given the same treatment. No matter, press on we must, to an ethereal, mystical place known as Opus One.
Life, stored in oak
Oft mentioned is the legend of Opus One, a venture between god and god alike. Only stories had we heard of the place where deities clashed to create this ruby-red liquid meant only for those dwelling among the mountaintops. Not long could we stay: for consuming this nectar would clearly damn us (admittedly, the older vintage nectars certainly out-shined the newer).
A rumble echoed through the vessel as we continued on our journey. Hunger ravaged our stomachs and swoony heads. The troops demanded sustenance greater than the dry, tasteless biscuits served to “cleanse the palate” at the previous establishments.
A small village appeared ahead. In this village resided what was known as the “Farmstead.” Their claim to local ingredients only intrigued us: how can one get local ingredients in late October other than winter gourds?
Let not the equipment sway you
Our worries proved idiotic as the foodstuffs were so incredible, there was not time to journal them before we consumed with unabashed pleasure. There was time, however, to note down the coordinates for a return trip.
Sated, the journey continued to a place known as Flora Springs, where there was flora, but little spring.
Much flora
No matter, they also concocted their own refreshment. So proud they were of their recipe, they presented us with the “Flight of Trilogy,” taking us through nearly 10 years history.
Alas, the hospitality proved to overstimulate, and our swirling heads needed to find an inn in which to rest for the evening.
Farewell to the day
Surprisingly, the crew revived again as ale began to flow, and the ancient game tournament commenced yet again. I reveled in their new-found excitement, but dreaded the coming of the dawn.
…
A bore boar you say? The tail tale continues after these messages.
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