Wheeling Gull Isle drink and shout

There were some fruit trees growing near the interior fringe of the mangrove swamp. Now that it was autumn, they’d begun dropping their sweet, juicy seed pods. Their peels shriveled and their flesh rotted, creating a strong odor which drew Caracal’s attention. During his traveling days of yore, someone had once told him about fermented fruit. Recklessly, he decided to eat one.

After that first experience, he gathered all the smashed fruits he could find and stored them in a hole in the ground not far from The Lion’s Den. He often visited the stash and partook of the inebriant fruit, just enough to take the edges off his pain. It was the only way he could function enough to support his family.

Today was particularly bad, leading Caracal to overindulge. Afterward, he tottered away toward The Greenhills, weaving a little and smiling to himself as the pain receded into the ethanol ether.