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