Wassail for Atrophinius

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I have run out of drink already, Ascended. Crucia - curse her mind-controlled treants for interrupting the flow of mead to the city - has truly made this a horrible season. Bring me several more bowls of the fae wassail. Sobriety does not suit a satyr.

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Atrophinius is not yet of a mind to frolic again, but these bowls should sate him for today.