Catch Lightning, They Said…

Supplies After the Incident:
 
Ale stock: evaporated (see: divine spark + open bottles)
Eyebrow: pending regrowth
Warhammer: slightly magnetic
Pride: surging
Local reputation: unstable, possibly legendary
Lightning in a bottle: previously real, now “airborne”
Stool: broken (again—expected)
 
Things I Am Definitely Not Journaling:
 
It started with ale. (They always do.)
The Broken Nail was its usual hymn of spills and shouting when some half-elf lad—Rillan, I think—decided to challenge me. Not to a fight, mind you. No, he asked if I could catch lightning. Which is either blasphemy or foreplay, depending on the region.
Naturally, I took it as a divine dare. Kord heard. Kord answered.
I walked out into the storm with prayer in one hand and my hammer in the other. Don’t remember much—just a lot of thunder and the smell of burning heroism. Woke up smelling like toasted courage and holding a bottle fizzing like a thundercloud’s bad idea.
Returned the next night looking like a divine hazard. Told Rillan “your turn.” Opened the bottle.
Lightning escaped like it had beef. Zapped the elf, a moose head, and a whole shelf of expensive regrets. Bar’s got an open skylight now, whether they wanted one or not.
Someone muttered “by the Forgefather.” I’m pretty sure he ducked under a table shaped like Kord’s fist. That counts as worship.
Rillan’s fine. Singed, wiser, maybe a little holier.
Me? I’m keeping the bottle cork as a holy relic.
 
This is NOT a journal.
This is storm documentation, divine in nature, mildly flammable.