Crazy Drink!

     Yorin sat in the galley with the ship’s non-gnome crew as they ate hunks of cut bread smeared with some kind of foul smelling butter. The crew were for the most part ignoring the professor, sitting in an out of the way corner nursing a mug of a sweet tasting wine that the crew were drinking. Occasionally one would glance his way before turning back to his fellows.

     Thus far his impulsive decision to charter passage on one of the sea gnome vessels to see, and hopefully document, their homeland was not living up to his expectations. Most days he was leaning over the railing vomiting, and on the rare occasion when the seas were calm enough that he didn’t get motion sickness everyone was too busy for him to ask questions. Two weeks into the journey and tonight was the first time when the sea was calm enough when there were people on break, and he had no clue how to approach them.

     Just as he was pondering this conundrum, the dining crew let out a cheer in response to something that one of them said. Almost at the same time, one of the red-haired humans with green and black lines on his skin walked over to Yorin.

     “You come, listen, join drinking game,” the human said in passable Aethron.

     Slightly wary, Yorin finished his mug before making his way to the table the crew was seated around. As he did so, he pulled out and quaffed one of his last remaining language potions. One of the more potent varieties, so that he’d be understood by the entire crew as well as understanding them. He’d used up all of his cheaper language potions in the first few days, and had been saving the ones that he had left. Something told him that he’d want it for what was about to occur.

     “So who’s starting this round?” one of the crew, a dwarf, asked as mugs were refilled.

     “Mayhaps we should explain the rules to our passenger first, Ruer,” the human that invited Yorin over deadpanned.

     “Oh fine, alright…what’s your name?” the dwarf asked as he turned to Yorin, a look of contemplation on his face.

     “I am Professor Yorin Argirus Brunton, of the Gnomish University of Ephemeral and Supernatural Studies. I,” Yorin started, about to launch into a description of his job and career as an author when Ruer interrupted.

     “Right then, here’s how the game works: we take turns telling something about somewhere, real or made up. If someone thinks you’re making it up, they call out ‘Crazy!’ If they’re right, you take a drink. If you’re telling the truth, then you yell ‘Drink!’ If no one calls it crazy, you take a drink. The last one standing wins. Understand?”

     Yorin was instantly intrigued, here were sailors talking about a game dealing with places and things that he’d never been to or heard about? How could he resist?

     “Who’s first?” was all Yorin said in response to Ruer’s question.

     “That’s the spirit! Azar there’s first, after that we circle around to the person on the left.”

     “Of course the bo’grah’s first,” the human that brought Yorin over muttered before taking a moment to think. A smirk spread across his face before he gave his tidbit, “In the far north of the world there are humans that travel the ice between Sylvanor and Braenlo.”

     A few moments passed before a halfling called out, “Crazy!”

     “Drink up Zevas!” a half-orc bellowed with a belly laugh.

     With good natured grumbling, the now named Zevas took a pull from his mug as the half-orc took a moment to think. Chuckling, he grinned as he spoke, “The Dreammaw clan back home has a drinking goblet fashioned from the skull of one chief’s daughter that fell in battle to the mountain dwarves. The dwarf king intended the goblet to be an insult, but the clan chief liked it so much that he had the clan mage enchant it and drank from it at every meal. To this day, it is considered taboo for the chief to drink from anything else.”

     Yorin didn’t know much about the orcs of this far off land, but it sounded like something that the orcs of the Green Coast would do. Apparently no one else thought it was out of the realm of possibility, and after a minute or two the half orc took a long drink from his mug. With a loud burp, he waved for Ruer to go.

     “I’ve been holding this one in since we set off from Puert de Crepusc; deep in the forests of Sylvanor, there is a race smaller than halflings that resemble beasts. The fur around their eyes are black like a mask, and their tails have black rings around them. Their tricks on outsiders are at best humiliating, at worst mutilating.”

     Yorin had heard rumors of such, and knew well enough to call, “Crazy.”

     “HA! Got’im, DRINK!” Ruen bellowed with glee.

     “Surely you must be joking, a race that resembles beasts? Preposterous!” Yorin defended, but a seed of doubt was planted within his mind. The grins of the various crew members playing the drinking game were too wide for them all to be playing a prank on him.

     “Though I haven’t seen any from Sylvanor, there’s a few monasteries up in the Braenlo mountains run by monks that resemble bipedal humanoid mountain lions. My spore-sister trained under them for a time,” Azar countered with an amused half-smile.

     Wordlessly, Yorin took a drink as his mind cataloged what he had heard. Intelligent races that resembled beasts? He could scarcely imagine it.

     “My turn,” Zevas said as he picked up his mug, “The bo’grah are derived from the Black Blood plague.”

     Yorin had no idea what he was talking about, though Azar was giving Zevas a deadpan expression until the halfling took a drink.

     “I thought for sure the new guy would call crazy again,” Zevas explained as he set down his mug.

     “If I knew what either of those were I might have,” Yorin flatly stated.

     Yorin suddenly became uncomfortable as everyone turned to stare at him with looks of surprise. Clearly both the term bo’grah as well as the plague were common knowledge in their homeland.

     It was Azar that explained, “Black Blood was a fungal plague created by cultists of a dissident sect Krytan, god of woodlands and plant-life. It killed between a quarter and half of the population in some places back home some forty years ago. The thing is, twenty years later two of the cultists revised the plague to animate the bodies of its victims with the intent of merging plant and animal life into one. Their successes, the bo’grah, rebelled with the assistance of the newly reformed Cult of the Antlered Wolf. Though rightfully suspicious, the nations of our homeland have cautiously accepted us. Nearly five cities have been founded by bo’grah in the last twenty years.”

     Now that it had been explained to him, Yorin realized what the green and black markings on Azar’s skin were. They weren’t tattoos or anything like that, they were the fungus in his body’s bloodstream.

     Slightly nervous, Yorin took a breath before trying to think of something to share. An idea hit him almost immediately, “In the lands to the south, there is a swamp. In this swamp is a dragon that ended a war. The only known way to appease his wrath is to gift him crates of a stout that was named in his honor: Old Black.”

     Ruen raised an eyebrow but remained quiet, while the others seemed to be thinking about the likelihood that Yorin was making up his story. Just as Yorin, feeling disheartened, was about to drink, the half-orc called out, “Crazy.”

     A victorious grin on his face, Yorin leapt onto the table pointing at the crewmate whilst bellowing, “DRINK!” before what he did registered. Flushed with embarrassment, Yorin climbed back into his seat before holding his mug in front of him like it would protect him from the gazes of the other people in the galley.

     Chuckling, Azar topped off his mug before beginning the second round. The game continued for many an hour, Yorin learning much. Including that his imagination grew wild when he drank. Really, eight tailed scorpions the size of a house living underground with armies of undead elves? Just the ramblings of a drunk gnome…right?

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