The Ale of the Wild: Lugh Oaklog’s Tale of Bariatok
“Ahem. Now gather ‘round, ya lot, an’ top off yer mugs, ‘cause this tale deserves a proper swig or two.
So there I was, gray in the beard but not in the bones, sailin’ upriver on the Wyrmbane’s Breath, far from the cozy clatter of Tycho . The sea? Long behind me. I’d followed a map inked on old wyrmhide, found in a sunken temple off the coast of Sidonia . Said map pointed inland, deep into the wilds of Bariatok, to a place the locals call the Shaded Teeth, jagged hills tangled in forests thick enough to choke the sun.
Now, Bariatok ... hah! She’s a beauty, aye, but make no mistake, she’s got fangs. Cold nights, hotter beasts, an’ lands that don’t take kindly to bein’ trod on. But somethin’ in me beard tugged me onward. Call it instinct. Call it wanderlust. Or maybe it was just that damned curiosity that’s always landed me in trouble.
It was there, while followin’ a broken path etched with claw marks an’ old tribal totems, that I ran into them, the Per'kasha
Aye, catfolk. Not like yer soft-footed alley kittens, mind you. These were proud, fierce-eyed folk, each one as different as night and day. One looked like a striped jungle ghost, another bore the black mane of a lion. But all of ‘em moved like water, silent, graceful... dangerous.
At first, they eyed me like I was dinner with a beard. But I raised both hands, showed no steel, an’ offered ‘em a pinch of salt beef an’ a flask of honey rum. That earned a chuckle from one of the elder huntresses, Niyata, I think her name was. Said I was either brave, stupid, or both. I told her, "Miss, I’m a dwarf. That’s redundant."
They led me to their camp, just a scatterin’ of tents and totems in the shadow of an old stone arch half-eaten by moss. But stars above, it felt like a temple. The air was thick with incense, woodsmoke, an’ that sweet earthy scent of bark brew.
Now, this is where it gets interesting.
They brought out a cask. Not just any cask, this thing was carved from a single trunk of ghostwood, etched with sigils older than some continents. They called it Ka’mara, their sacred brew. Said it was made once a season, blessed under moonlight, and laced with roots from the Dreaming Hollow.
I took one sip, just to be polite.
Then I woke up the next morning on a branch fifteen feet in the air, shirtless, arm-wrestlin’ a leopard.
It wasn’t a dream, either.
Turns out that ale did something to me. Fire in the belly, steel in the bones. I was liftin’ logs like they were broomsticks, racin’ up trees like a mad squirrel, even hunted a razorboar with nothin’ but a stick and a song. They cheered, clapped, someone braided flowers into me beard, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel old. I felt alive.
I asked ‘em for the recipe. They just laughed.
They said it ain't a recipe, it’s a ritual. A bond with the land. Said I could never brew it on my own, but I’d always carry a bit of it in me blood now.
And y’know what? They were right.
Sometimes, on cold nights, I still feel that strength hummin’ in my bones. And sometimes... sometimes... I swear I can smell that Ka’mara when the wind's just right, mixin’ with the sea salt outside The Sunken.
So here’s to the Per’kasha, may their paws find safe trails, an’ may their casks never run dry!”
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