The Kingdom of Elvendor: Curse of the Forgotten

Ale's Quest

I sat by the bonfire, its crackling whispers lulling my restless thoughts. Or maybe it was the ale, starting to work its magic. I couldn't really tell. Some of the Vikings had already passed out, sprawled across the ground like felled trees, the sound of snoring blending with the night. There were body parts sticking from several bushes, their owners likely unconscious, though I briefly wondered if they were just taking a dramatic nap. Vikings and their flair for theatrics.

The rest of the group? They were celebrating like there was no tomorrow. Their songs carried into the night, proud and loud, though the words had become increasingly slurred. They danced in circles around the fire, arms flailing like fending off invisible bees. Plates of food, so greasy it should slide right off, were passed around, along with mugs of ale that never seemed to stay full for long.

It all felt... blurry, like the edges of the world were dancing in the corners of my eyes. My thoughts, too, were becoming annoyingly slippery. I caught myself smiling for no reason, as if the fire had whispered a joke only I could hear. The heat of the flames was seeping into my skin, or maybe that was just the ale again. Either way, everything was brighter, warmer, and slightly... tilted. Was everything leaning to the left, or was that just me?

Freya sat beside me, her gaze lingering on an older Viking across the flames. He was returning her attention, but his boldness faltered the moment Bjorn's protective stare cut through the haze of the celebration. Bjorn's gaze carried the kind of weight that could unnerve even the most hardened warrior.

Freya was his sister, after all.

"Do you have to do this every single time?" she complained. "I'm never going to find a man if you keep doing that thing of yours, chasing them all away!"

"If a simple glare scares them off, then they're not worthy of my sister," Bjorn retorted. "Besides, that one's twice your age."

"Well, I don't have much choice, do I? You've scared off all the younger ones! They won't even look at me now. Maybe stop interfering in my love life and go find one of your own."

"It's not my fault we're surrounded by men, unworthy of you," he said, smirking.

"What about Eirik?" I chimed in, intrigued for the answer. "He seems... decent."

Freya laughed, shaking her head. "Eirik? He's the chief's firstborn son. That's a bit out of my league."

"Why? Because of his status?" I asked.

Bjorn answered before she could. "That, and because he needs a steady woman by his side. Not this little drunk here."

Freya grabbed her mug and pointed it at him. "I can't be a drunk if someone doesn't pour me another drink. Speaking of, let's not forget our dear cousin! Elowen looks far too sober."

"I haven't even finished the last one," I protested, glancing down at the glass in my hand.

"Then drink up, cousin!" she teased, raising her own mug.

Even though I was raised an orphan, I wasn't raised a quitter.

With a determined sigh, I lifted the half-full glass, as a positive person I was, and tipped it back, swallowing the burning liquid in one go.

Big mistake.

The taste hit me like a slap from a soggy boot; sharp, sour, and strangely muddy, as if someone had bottled regret and decided to serve it with a side of fire. My throat protested violently, and for a moment, I wasn't sure if I was about to breathe fire or cough up my soul. Yet, bizarrely, there was something addictive about it. Like a bad song you couldn't stop humming.