Tipple had seen many things on his travels: enchanted sneeze-tables, owl familiars with clovers, and clerics who healed with schnapps, but nothing quite prepared him for the sight that greeted him as he entered the outskirts of Aleminster.
He arrived in style, riding atop an enchanted Ryecanthrope carriage, its wooden frame etched with runes of fermentation and pulled by a reformed Ryecanthrope father who now wore a harness of hops and mild regret. The pups, nestled in the back, yipped with excitement every time Tipple strummed his lute, occasionally harmonizing in off-key howls.
As the carriage crested a hill, the copper steeples of Aleminster came into view… though “steeples” was generous for what appeared to be a series of taverns stacked like drunken dominoes. Banners flapped in the breeze, proclaiming National Beer Lover’s Day, and the scent of malt and mischief hung thick in the air.
Then came the clatter.
There, atop a wobbling steed made entirely of empty barrels lashed together with braided hops vines, rode a knight in gleaming armor. His orange plume flapped dramatically in the wind like a flag of fermented valor. His moustache glistened like a polished crescent moon, and his sword, Foamblade, etched with runes of carbonation, was currently being used to slice the tops off bottles mid-gallop, sending fizzy geysers into the air like celebratory fireworks.
“FOR HONOR!” the knight bellowed, narrowly missing a signpost, then pivoting into a spin that sent a volley of corks flying into a nearby hedge, where they startled a flock of birds into flight.
Tipple blinked. “Sir Drankalot?”
The knight turned his head, lost control of his steed, and promptly crashed into a stack of celebratory kegs arranged like a ceremonial arch. The barrel-steed collapsed in a clatter of wood and foam, and Sir Drankalot tumbled forward in a roll that somehow ended in a heroic pose: one knee down, Foamblade raised, and his moustache untouched by chaos.
“Tipple! My favorite minstrel of mischief!” he declared, voice booming with the confidence of someone who had absolutely not just fallen off a keg-animal. “What brings you to Aleminster on this most sacred of days?”
“National Beer Lover’s Day,” Tipple replied, gesturing to the celebratory banners strung between taverns. “I figured you’d be here.”
Sir Drankalot stood, brushing off his armor with exaggerated flair, then checked his reflection in a nearby puddle. He adjusted his moustache with two fingers and gave himself a wink. “Indeed. I was just returning from a noble quest to retrieve the lost recipe of the Holy Keg. Alas, I found only a pamphlet for a brewery tour and a coupon for half-off mead.”
“Still sounds like a win,” Tipple said, hopping down from the Ryecanthrope carriage and handing over the scroll.
Drankalot took it reverently, squinting at the shimmering ink. “Ah, the call to reunite. Absinthia’s arrows, Merlo’s feast, Intoxica’s carriage of consequence… and Maltilda’s BYO gauze. Glorious.”
Just then, a group of local children ran past, tossing hop garlands and chanting “Drank-a-lot! Drank-a-lot!” as if he were a folk hero (which, in Aleminster, he absolutely was). One child handed him a tankard carved from a hollowed-out turnip. He accepted it with a bow, took a sip, and immediately declared, “This is either divine nectar or someone’s bathwater. I shall investigate!”
He pulled out a quill fashioned from a feather dipped in ale foam and added his own message...
As the ink dried, Tipple raised an eyebrow. “You’re bringing Bubbles?”
Drankalot nodded solemnly. “He’s been refurbished with reinforced staves and a cupholder.”
The two spent the afternoon in Aleminster’s grand tavern, where Sir Drankalot regaled the crowd with tales of the Hooch Crusades and his brief stint as a sommelier for a dragon. Tipple played a new tune titled “The Knight Who Fought with Foam”, and Bubbles tried to eat a barstool.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Tipple prepared to continue his journey, scroll in hand and song in heart. Sir Drankalot waved dramatically from atop his steed, shouting, “Tell the others I’m bringing the party!”
Tipple grinned. “They wouldn’t expect anything less.”
And so, on National Beer Lover’s Day, the scroll gained another signature, the reunion drew closer, and the legend of Sir Drankalot continued… equal parts valor, volume, and very shiny moustache.