Tipple's next destination was far, but thanks to Intoxica's magical Ryecanthrope carriage, it proved the easiest travel arrangements he had managed since setting out on this quest. It took less than a fortnight for him to reach his next stop: Beerlandia, and as soon as he arrived, he smelled it before he saw it—an unmistakable waft of malt and dew, as if the very earth had been steeped in a celebratory brew. It was absolutely delicious.
Yet when Tipple reached the village proper, Keggar was nowhere to be seen—a rarity indeed. The ever-boisterous Keggar was usually impossible to miss, practically the center of every event. Being the Chief's son made him ever-present in his community, so it was weird that he wasn't more obvious. But that was when Tipple's ears caught the unmistakable sound of hearty cheer from the local Mead Hall.
"Bingo," he said to himself as he unhitched the Ryecanthrope father so he could enjoy some time with his pups. Tipple poured them some water and laid out a nice spread of food before turning his attention back to the Mead Hall. Drawn in by that tantalizing merriment, he soon discovered its source: a raucous celebration of familial pride echoing from within.
Pushing open the creaking door of the timeworn hall, Tipple found Keggar the Barbeerian deep in one of his signature moments—a spirited beer-pong duel with none other than his formidable father, Chief Kegg.
The hall itself was a marvel of rustic charm; ancient wooden beams crisscrossed overhead, and lanterns swung gently in the warm draft, casting playful shadows on smiling faces. Long tables groaned under the weight of hearty feasts—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and jugs of frothy ale.
The clatter of tankards and boisterous laughter filled the room as Keggar, with his battle-axe, The Buzzkiller, leaning by his side, volleyed playful quips at his father with boundless mischief and impulsive bravado. Chief Kegg, a mountain of an orc clad in rugged furs and crowned with braided barley, countered every remark with a booming laugh and a swinging stein. Their contest wasn't merely about ale; it was a cherished ritual—a day devoted to celebrating kinship, honor, and the shared legacy of a proud clan.
Tipple couldn't resist joining the fray. Stepping into the circle with a respectful bow and a twinkle of mischief in his voice, he called out, "I see the apple hasn't fallen far from the barrel!" His comment drew a wave of approving grunts and chuckles.
"Tipple! Good friend, what brings you to Beerlandia?" boomed Keggar the Barbeerian as he raised his stein in greeting.
Tipple grinned and replied, "I followed the sound of laughter and the smell of malt—couldn't resist the call!"
Between rounds of playful jabs and swirling ale, Tipple presented Keggar with the correspondence he had accumulated so far. With a few swift strokes of his quill, Keggar penned a new entry, his words as loud and large as his own personality. They were unapologetically Keggar:
After he finished, he read the note aloud, as if it were a proclamation. A ripple of chuckles spread through the Mead Hall as Chief Kegg bellowed in agreement and clapped Tipple on the back.
"Short and sweet," Tipple said. "Just like me!"
Keggar let out a bellowing laugh, nodding in agreement. "I am not one for long-winded speeches. If my heroic friends are meeting, I will be there to greet them with a barrel in each hand." And with that, Keggar turned his attention back to the game.
With a final, deft flick of his wrist, Keggar sent the last tankard sailing into the designated cup with a satisfying slap that echoed like a victory drum. The entire Mead Hall fell silent for a heartbeat, every eye fixed on the spectacle, before erupting into a cacophony of cheers and boisterous laughter. Even Chief Kegg, ever the stalwart, raised his stein in a grudging salute to his son's victory.
Keggar's wild grin spread wider than ever as the realization of his win sank in—a triumphant moment where spilled ale and clashing tankards bore witness to his prowess. In that resounding juncture, amid the swirling haze of frothy cheers and the deep, hearty guffaws of his clan,
"May the memory of this day remind us all that every misadventure is a story waiting for a toast," Tipple said.
As the merriment swelled into a timeless celebration, Tipple lingered a while longer, savoring the contagious mirth and the fragrant haze of spilled ale mingled with laughter. In that enchanted moment, as shadows danced along the Mead Hall's stone walls and the clinking of mugs set a jubilant rhythm, he knew that this encounter was just another radiant page in Barcadia's ever-unfolding tale—a tale of wild hearts, impossible journeys, and the unyielding bonds of kinship forged over a perfect brew.
With that, Tipple gathered his things and stepped out under the starlit sky, determined that no matter where his wandering took him next, the spirit of this day would follow him like a faithful shadow.