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Then his face split into a sudden smirk. ‘Of course, who wouldn’t say yes to more of that fokkin’ amazing brew? I’ve never sampled anything so blissful.’
‘Like an offering to the heavens,’ Kaxim growled with a grin, in a rare show of enjoyment,
‘A delightful haze of malt and barley, steeped in the rich history of a timeless beverage,’ Kione added.
Sana’a rolled her eyes. ‘You Katánians speak from your ass sometimes, and the poetry streak especially comes out when tipsy, I’ve noticed.’
‘Fokk off, Shotelai, you who lives life with such blunt focus, it’s a wonder your weapons cut. How could one not be poetic about kervisia’s complex flavours that burst on the tongue with each sip? How could you not fall in love with the bitterness of the hops, the sweetness of the malts and the refreshing effervescence mingled together in perfect harmony?’
‘How can you not stop yourself from waxing lyrical and spewin’ bull with every word you say?’ Sana’a clapped back.
Kione crowed, thumping his thigh. ‘Shotelai, you are a force of poetic nature that I’ll be keeping well away from.’
‘Sir, I don’t know about you,’ Sana’a drawled, ‘but whenever you open your mouth, it seems to change whichever foot was just there.’
Kaxim grunted. ‘Oh, she burns.’
‘She flames,’ Sana’a shot back, enjoying herself.
Kultur smiled like a proud father as he oversaw the pouring of more kervisia.
The quartet lost themselves in the rhythmic clinking of glasses and the heartfelt warmth of camaraderie, a celebration of companions connected by a common cause.
Killen savoured the moment.
He leaned back with a half smile, taking in the murmured conversation and the occasional laughs.
It was rewarding to have reached this milestone, and he treasured the reprieve this night gave him from the heavy onus of duty.
Betters till he was surrounded by friends and, even more so, the woman who kept blowing his mind, day and night.
Sana’a was seated by his side.
He stared at the nape of her neck, one of his favourite parts of her body, wishing right now to be inside her, loving her, head buried in that sweetest of spots.
Hissing to control his unbidden hardening, he reached for her hand under the table and gave it a quick squeeze.
She did the same, keeping her hand in his as he stroked a finger on her skin.
Life was righteous, he thought. Nothing could beat this feeling.
He swigged his second stein of beer, then jolted.
His vision blurred and doubled again, accompanied by an intense burning throughout.
A woozy sensation came over him. His limbs weakened as if hit with a shot of pure lethargy.
He stared at his beer mug, and for a second, his hawkstone flashed, revealing the streaks of dark poison laced through the swirling gold bubbles of the liquid within.
A second lurch of panic hit him, and he attempted to stand up but stumbled back onto his seat.
He just managed to groan a warning as his lips lost the ability to form words.
He struggled to glance up, his head moving ever so slow as Kultur eased away from the group, edging towards the open windows of the kíota.
Sana’a leaned over him as if moving in slow motion. He tried to say something to her, but his mouth refused to comply.
With a groan, he fought to slip out of the grasp of the cloying gloom he was being pulled into.
