An alcohol maker of great renown was kind and warm. They were also insanely skilled with their craft, being able to make any kind of drink imaginable, and without any use of magic at all. Of course, unfortunately, their reputation got around, so they did, sometimes, have to deal with very arrogant individuals demanding to know their secrets, demanding that they work for only one person or another and "not to share these drinks with the peasantry for they did not deserve them." Only to find out that, just because the person didn't use magic to make their drinks didn't mean they didn't know magic for use in defense of themselves and their home. -- Anon Guest
Glistablanc, the world's greatest brewer, spent a moment appreciating the dungeon cell. It was where, according to the Monarch Ysaben, he would be spending years if he didn't 'behave'.
Behave, from the tyrant's dictionary, meant, "Do what I tell you to do and be happy about it."
It was a fairly decent cell, as far as incarceration methods were concerned. Carved into the solid rock, there were no bricks or cobbles to loosen. The one crack in the flooring also served as the drainage and was barely wide enough for a mouse, let alone a full-grown humanoid. The rushes were changed once a month whether they needed it or not, the food wasn't spat in, and the bars were wrought iron. Seven tin cups out of a possible ten.
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