The last golden leaves of autumn clung to the branches as Tipple the Half Pint set out on the final leg of his journey. The enchanted Ryecanthrope carriage rolled along the winding road, pups snuggled in the back, their tiny hats now adorned with foamy tankard motifs. Tipple’s heart thumped with anticipation because he was headed back to where it all began… The Plastered Pony, the beating heart of Barcadia’s revelry and the birthplace of the kingdom’s greatest drinking competition.
The journey was long, but the second the tavern’s sign came into view, Tipple felt a surge of nostalgia. The Plastered Pony was a sanctuary for heroes and a stage for mischief. But the last time Tipple and the rest of the “Heroes of Barcadia” had been there, the vibes had just been off. But Tipple supposed that’s just what happens when monsters turn a safe place into the beginnings of a quest.
Tipple parked his carriage in the VIP section (a perk Brewtus the Barkeep had bestowed on the entire party after they emerged victorious). And gave his pups plenty of pats. (Of course.) How would he ever travel without them?
Tipple walked to the entrance and through the doors. Inside, the air was thick with laughter, the clatter of mugs, and the scent of roasted meats. Brewtus Pintsmasher, the barrel-chested ogre barkeep, presided over the chaos with a booming laugh and a wink that could settle any bar brawl. His fists, still rated “hazardous” by the Ministry of Mead, rested lightly on the counter, but everyone knew they could flatten a troll or two if the need arose.
“Tipple! You pint-sized poet, what brings you back to my humble hall of heroics?” Brewtus called, voice echoing off the rafters.
Tipple hopped onto a barstool, nearly swallowed by its size. “I come bearing a scroll and a proposition, Brewtus. The heroes are gathering again, and there’s only one place worthy of hosting our reunion… the very tavern where it all began.”
Brewtus’ eyes twinkled with pride and nostalgia. “Here at The Plastered Pony, eh? If it’s a party you want, it’s a party you’ll get. No monster, guardian, or Ministry of Mead inspector can stop me from filling these mugs.”
Tipple unfurled the scroll, showing Brewtus the signatures and messages from Merlo, Intoxica, Keggar, Maltilda, Sir Drankalot, Flaskian, and all the rest. Brewtus read each one, his booming laugh rumbling with every outrageous promise and heartfelt toast.
“Looks like the whole crew’s coming,” Brewtus said, slapping the bar with enough force to rattle the bottles. “I’ll tap every keg, roast every beast, and hang every banner. The Plastered Pony will be ready for the greatest reunion Barcadia’s ever seen.”
Brewtus winked. “And don’t worry. I’ll have my fists… and my wallop ready. Now, let’s get to planning. The heroes of Barcadia deserve nothing less than a legendary celebration.”
As the sun set over The Plastered Pony, Tipple and Brewtus set to work, drafting invitations, stacking barrels, and swapping tales of old. The tavern buzzed with anticipation, and somewhere in the shadows, the Die of Barcane Chaos glimmered, waiting for its next roll.
The reunion was set. The heroes would return. And Brewtus, the heart of Barcadia, would make sure every goblet overflowed with joy.