“The enchanted Ryecanthrope carriage was such a great idea,” Tipple said to himself as he strummed a chord on his lute and sang to the Ryecanthrope pups. “I should have visited Intoxica first.”
It had been a few days since he left Beerlandia, and he was making great progress. But that could also be because he was really excited for the next stop: Maltilda.
The Stout Hearted.
The Bar Tab Wielder.
The Five-Time Unbroken Champion of Elbow-to-Table Glory.
The carriage crested a hill just as the copper steeples of Maltilda’s monastery came into view—though “monastery” was a generous term for what appeared to be a rowdy beer hall converted from a ruined cathedral. A hand-painted sign read: Cleric Cheers Only. Others BYO Ale.
There was no carriage parking (obviously), so Tipple had to make do with what used to be some sort of garden, but was now run-down… and just an available space. He unhitched the Ryecanthrope father, giving him a “Good boy” and plenty of pats. Then he turned to approach the wide oaken doors. But before he approached, the doors suddenly flew open with a loud bang. A dwarf was being hurled through them… cheerfully. (Don’t worry, he’s fine.)
“I told ye’ not to challenge her unless you had at least one healing spell left!” came a voice from inside.
Tipple leaned in with a grin. “That would be Maltilda, then.”
Inside, the tavern-cathedral buzzed with light, laughter, and magical residue. Every surface was scuffed, scorched, or slightly glowing. At the center of it all stood Maltilda, mace slung across her back like a keg on tap.
She spotted Tipple and immediately bellowed, “OH! It’s the minstrel with the fancy fingering!”
Tipple’s lute twanged in protest. “I believe the term is ‘bard,’ dear Maltilda.” He said, taking a bow anyway.
“And I believe the term is ‘get over here and drink something consecrated!’” She pulled him into a one-armed hug that nearly rearranged his spine.
The introductions didn’t last long. Tipple found himself seated at an enchanted table that refilled ale whenever someone sneezed, while Maltilda pounded mugs and recounted how she once healed an entire party with a single potion.
“But those weren’t just medicinal spirits,” she added with a wink. “Those were vintage cherry schnapps from the cellar of Saint Keggerine. Divine intervention, really.”
A whistle cut through the air, sharp and musical. Maltilda’s eyes lit up.
“That’s my girl,” she said, then stood on the table and yelled, “HOPSY, YOU BEAUTY, BRING THE WHEAT!”
The doors opened again, and in strode a towering woman with golden hair in a buzzcut, a hops-print tank top, and arms that could crush tankards (or suitors) depending on the mood and the moon. On her shoulder was a keg stamped with the sigil of their holy union: crossed beer steins under a full moon.
“This is Hopsy,” Maltilda announced proudly as the keg thunked down beside them. “She’s my inspiration, my sparring partner, partner in life, and technically an ordained hopsmaid.”
“Tipple, was it?” Hopsy said, offering a hand. Her grip was warm. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the one writing those catchy songs about your adventures at the Drinking Competition… you remember. The Grand Drink Guardian and all that.”
“Guilty,” Tipple smiled. “And I’m actually here to plan a sort of reunion.” And with that, Tipple uncurled the group text scroll to Maltilda, who read through it before adding her own message at the bottom.
As she sealed the note with a foamy ale splash, she turned to Tipple. “You’ll sing about this, won’t you?”
“Already writing the chorus in my head,” he said, resting a hand on his lute. “It starts with ‘And the cleric with courage and foam in her heart—’”
“Foam and fury,” Hopsy corrected.
“Even better,” Tipple grinned.
They drank. They joked. Someone summoned a miniature tornado by sneezing too hard. And as the night wore on, Tipple slept like a saint in a cider barrel before setting out for his next destination in the morning.