Brew
The inn is almost empty, for it is harvest time, so I decide to take a moment to go to the cellar to check on the ale that I started brewing two weeks ago. 'Nob, you rascal, mind the counter!' I order before leaving through a side door.
I reach the cellar and make my way to the table with the jar of ale on it. It is a strong one: still eleven percent alcohol. Dipping some out into a metal cup I keep there for the same reason, I taste it, then draw myself some more. Why should a busy man like me pass up an opportunity to have a taste of his own ale? After all, these quiet moments at the inn are few and far-between.