We spent the next few days tweaking the exact recipe for our salty gose. There were a few extra steps beyond just adding yogourt at the boil, like mixing a proper starter and testing different yogourts to get a good strain of bacteria. A bad strain could make the sour taste like vomit, and we really didnt want that, even though it would technically bring our sour closer to the taste of standard Sacred Brew!
Bran and Darrel continued to bring us salty dish after salty dish. We ate so much salt it was an assault to our senses. It was enough that I felt like a saltier dog than Kirk! And when we finally got an unsalted dish I turned sorsalts. It got to the point that everyone else was avoiding the office, because Id pepper them with puns to celebrate the season of the Octamillenial.
I could do this all day, but Annie would get sour. Nyuck.
All good things must co to an end, and soon a few different attempts were awaiting ferntation. I got Whistlemop to make us a series of carboys large glass jugs so we could do so small batches, rather than wasting the full tank space on possible duds.
Carboy brewing really took back to my college days, just sitting in the garage and shootin the shit with Caroline or my business buddies. Talking about Nirvana and imagining we were cool.
We also made our first Light Brew, using the Ancestral Seed Master Brewer Schist had gifted us. Annie actually wept tears of joy when we made it and set it to fernt in one of the cooled tanks. It would take at least a month to fernt, but it would be worth it!
In the end we had five different sour goses and five plain jane goses fernting against the wall.
Of course, things didnt stop just because we had competition stuff to do! The regular beers still needed to be brewed and bottled, the tavern still had to be run, and everyone else still had their lives to live.
While everyone did the day-to-day, I spent so ti drying out my precioussssss hops in the oven. I washed my hands in gollumy glee as I watched them baking. Wet-hops, as fresh hops were called, werent the best for brewing unless they were fresh, fresh, and I didnt want my first experience with them marred by improper storage.
As for my brother, he was finally going to beco *sniff* a real Kinshasa adventurer! Which was why one fine morning I found myself giving him a fashion once-over, before he went to do the practical test against the shellback. His team had passed the written test with flying colours, so only the battle with the beastie remained.
Ach, Pete. Stop with tha bloody theatrics!! Balin grumped. Argghh! Quit it!!!
He tried to shuffle aside as I applied so of the old spit and polish to his golden armour.
We need you looking your best today Balin! Youre going to be impressing the judges with your armants, skill of arms, strength of arms, and your fancy armour! Thats a lot of arms, so Im lending you a hand to go with them.
... yer daft, ya know that?
Shuddup and turn to the left. How did you get gravy oil on magically apparating plate!?
Balin muttered, but turned dutifully to let get at what looked like the remains of biscuits, gravy, and fried chicken. Bran had been experinting with fried foods recently, from fried chicken, to fried goat, to fried mushrooms. Since we were still the only ones really using deep-frying, he considered it an edge in the saltiness competition.
Personally, I could eat fried food all day, especially now that the brews were getting halfway tolerable with Annies Goldstone Bitters.
I finished dusting him off, then considered the gleaming God that stood before . I averted my eyes. Ugh, Tiaras Shiny Golden Teats yer so godsdamn pretty in this armor.
Balin twiddled his handlebar moustache proudly. Aye, that I am.
Are you sure we cant co and watch?
Balin shook his head sadly. Itll be a couplea hours, and theres no audience allowed. Lotsa reasons fer that.
Ah well. I guess Richter, Johnsson, Aqua and I can go on our little jaunt in the anti. Well co and et you at the guild when were done. Annie will be eting us there too. Then we can all go crash an axe-throwing range or sothing.
Youll stay safe? And bring yer warhamr with ya.
Relax! Were just going to tha pub. And you have that fancy [Party-Finder] thing to sniff out if sothing happens.
Yer goin to yer competitors pub. Balin chided. It could be dangerous.
Eh, I dont think theyll try anything with the eyes of the entire city on them. Richter learned a defensive spell, just in case, and well all be ard.
Where is it?
In Yellowwall, not far from Deepcore Dungeon, actually. Theyve been focusing on servin adventurers.
Balins brows furrowed with thought. But lotsa adventurers wont be able ta vote. Only Kinshasan residents can.
I snickered. Seems like it's in the bag.
They made it to tha second round, they must be good brewers
Oh, no doubt. But the first round was just a general test. The voting thing was unexpected, and may cost them.
Ach. Ive been seein those, whatd they call em, votin booths around tha city. Seems like a lot of work fer a one ti-thing.
I drumd my fingers on his massive shoulder-pads. Hmmm they may not be a one ti thing. I think there may be a Chosen in city hall; voting booths are sothin from my world.
Balin gave a steely look.
I nodded. Aye. Dunno who, yet. Bando and Johnsson have been spendin lots of ti with tha locals, so Ive asked them ta look into it.
Well, you stay safe. Hopefully theres no Dungeon Break when yer there. He adjusted his plate gauntlet and then matched horrified gazes with . Godsdamn, now you've got doin it!
How was that MY FAULT!?
We took the long way around the dungeon. It took an extra hour, but we werent taking any chances.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Kirk ended up tagging along. Wed originally planned to go sans giant, but Kirk convinced us that humans were common enough around Deepcore Dungeon that he wouldnt be out of place.
Penelope ca as well. She convinced us with cuteness. And threats of bleating violence.
Kirk turned out to be correct, as the number of giants and other races in sight increased as we approached the pub. I stopped counting around fifty giants and a dozen elves. They were the general eclectic fare Id co to expect of adventurers, with varying armours, clothes, and magic items.
The neighbourhood was standard Yellowall, with a mishmash of multi-storey dilapidated and ramshackle houses. This close to the dungeon was especially bad, and most of the buildings looked ready to collapse even without monstrous help.
Lucky Jeans wasnt so much a hole in the wall, as a hole in the roof. A creaky ramp led up to an open hatch, with raucous shouting and hollering coming from inside. Light stread out of the windows above us, along with the occasional tossed dwarf.
Kirk approved. Easy to get a good distance on the toss with a setup like this.
Easy ta defend against diggin monsters, too. Richter mused. So long as dey dont just knock it over.
The ramp had an odd mottled look to it, which on closer examination resolved into a thick mat of peanut shells. I cracked a laugh.
Whuzzat, Pete? Johnsson asked, looking askance at . He was sweaty and nervous, as he was relatively new to espionage. I was an old hand at it after scoping out the restaurants of Minnova with Bran back in the day.
It reminds of a pub back ho, I said, pointing to the shells. Big Bad Johns on Van-Isle. They had peanut shells on the floor, just like that.
Peanut shells? Johnsson asked, staring at them.
You lot ave only had de Greentree tree nuts! Richter said, a smile across his face. These are a South Erden specialty. Ya got tha na right for once Pete. Peanuts! mum used ta crushem and put em in her tasty goat curry.
Penelope knickered angrily, and we all stared at her.
I know shes smart Aqua muttered. But is she actually understanding what were talking about?
As if to answer, Penelope flicked her tail and sauntered into the pub, the four of us watching her sashay away like a cat whod just flicked an expensive vase off the counter.
There was a brief knot of silence until Kirk cleared his throat. *Ahem* Well, far be it from to let a princess walk into a pub unaccompanied. He strode up the ramp and we all followed after.
The peanut shells continued into the main building, making a coat so thick you couldnt see the floor. The pub was rip-roaring, with a bard playing the traditional dwarven bagpipes in a back corner. He had a one-ard giant accompanying him on a drum set. The combination made for a heady pub song. I wouldve normally sung along, but we had a goat to save.
Or rather the goat had saved us. Seats, that was.
Penelope had browbeat a pair of drunken dwarves out of a corner booth, and was proudly sitting in the middle seat, a smug look on her face.
We sidled to either side of her. Richter and Johnsson on the left, and Kirk and I on her right, leaving Aqua to glare accusingly at the full booth.
Sorry, you wont fit. I shrugged.
Aye. Its all those sweets you and Opal have been eatin. Johnsson snickered.
Richter shuffled sideways to avoid the splash zone as Aqua nacingly pulled a small truncheon off her belt.
We ignored Johnsons piteous screams as we read over the nu on the table. This was more of a bar than a pub, as outside of the peanuts and the usual dwarven snack of pickles, there wasnt anything else other than the beer.
They had True Brew, and Light Brew.
So far, so normal.
But then they also had a small selection of their own brews! The tis, they were a changin!
They had an ale called Golden Brew, which I suspected was a rip-off of our liquid gold. If so, I'd need to do nothing. Half the point of all this rigmarole was to convince the other breweries to try new recipes. I was glad to see it was working.
And they had a signature light brew they called Lucky.
By all tha bits o tha Gods, they had freaking LUCKY!!!
That was what it was called! Lucky! Lucky Lager!!! The buck-a-beer All-Canadian brew of the drunken hoser!
The drink nu says that Lucky grants the Minor Luck Condition. Aqua said as she read over the nu. Thats interesting. It would explain why theyre so popular with adventurers. Minor Luck doesnt really do much, but if youre living on the edge of a knife, it could be enough to be the difference between life and death. I wonder how they do it?
That must be how they won tha preliminary contest back in their hotown, Johnsson mused. Beer that gives you a bit a luck to help find a new gold vein, or survive a hard fight, or craft sothin just a little better? Every dwarf loves a bit of luck. I could see sothing like that winnin the contest for defines a dwarf if every other brewery just put out a regular brew.
I imdiately demanded a whole keg when the red-bearded barmaid ca to get our drink orders. I may have been manic while ordering. Kirk and Aqua ordered the Golden Brew, Richter ordered a True Brew, and Johnsson asked for so ice for his bruises. Then Penelope pointed a dainty hoof at the nu and gave a commanding bleat. The barmaid shot us a questioning look and we shrugged as one.
Bring her a Golden Brew in a bowl. Aqua muttered. She was currently seated in Johnssons old spot, Johnsson having decided to hold up the wall next to the table.
As the barmaid left with our order, Richter turned to with a concerned look. Pete? Why do ya look like a miner who found himself a freschie?
They have Lucky Lager! I squealed with glee.
And?
Its sothing from back ho!
Ah! Yer HO ya an? He waggled his eyebrows and pointed at Kirk, indicating what he really ant.
Aye.
Dont you objectify . Kirk objected.
Richter ignored him. Was it yer favourite brew?
Hah! No, more like least favourite pig swill, but it was cheap and plentiful. A quick inexpensive way to get drunk in college. Ill bet you the dwarven version tastes just as bad.
Conversation ceased as I practically vibrated in my seat. Everyone gave side-eye, including the bloody goat.
The barmaid returned with a platter of drinks, as well as a bowl of peanuts and so pickles. She was accompanied by an tanned easterner with a bright ginger beard and an even brighter smile. He wore an armoured kilt, along with a leather cuirass, and a set of horn-rimd glasses. He was carrying a cleaning cloth on his belt, and a fine dagger in a sheath on his hip.
Hallo, you lot. Is that goat yers? He asked, brightly, pointing at Penelope. He had a clear and chipper easterner accent, much like Sams.
*Baaah!!* [Translated From Prima Donna Goat] I am a lady, not so re that goat!
Yes, is that a problem? Aqua asked.
Nope, Appletina here was just saying there was sothin interestin happenin, yaknow? He patted the barmaid on the back and she nodded.
Aye, a unigoat orderin a brew straight from the nu! It was sure sothin to see!
He gave us a flashing grin. Im Master Brewer Herder, the owner of this establishnt, but you can call Ironbellows when yer drinkin my beer. Welco to Lucky Jeans! Who might you folk be?
Appletina and Ironbellows were odd nas for dwarves. More gnomish, I wouldve thought. I had heard that the gnos had a bigger influence on the developnt of the East, so that was one possible explanation.
I pointed at Penelope. Thats, uh, Pen, and Im Peede. Nica ta et ya. I barely rembered in ti that we were technically here incognito. Thankfully, I kept my tongue from betraying our true nas.
I held out my hand and we bumped fists. As we did, he gave a focused look that Id co to associate with soone using an Ability. I managed to hold back a frown; that was pretty rude to do on a friendly first eting.
He looked from Kirk, to Penelope, to Aqua, to Richter, and back to , and his smile widened even further. You must be from the Thirsty Goat brewpub! Here to scope out your competition!
Uh Shit! We were made! Abort! Abort! Abort!
Which would make you Brewer Roughtuff, he continued, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, and youre an Otherworlder, arent you.
Six pairs of wide eyes stared at him in shocked silence.
*BAAAAHHH!* [Translated from Prima Donna Goat] He knows too much to live!!
User Comments
0 comments from readers