Chương 83: B2—Interlude 3: Ale Popsicle

Rabban pushed through the tavern door, shoulders rolling forward out of habit, even though the lintel was high enough. The familiar smells washed over him: smoke, old wood, and ale soaked deep into the floorboards. His mood lifted immediately at the thought of a properly chilled tankard waiting for him. He claimed his usual bench and rapped his knuckles against the table.

"Ale." The serving girl brought one over immediately. Rabban lifted the tankard and frowned. No condensation. He tilted it slightly, then took a mouthful. His expression went blank. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the tankard back to the table. One thick finger dipped into the ale, swirled once, and came back out. Warm. Rabban stood. The bench creaked loudly as he rose, and nearby conversations thinned out, voices trailing off as his shadow stretched across the room.

He crossed the tavern in heavy, deliberate steps and planted both hands on the bar. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"This," he said, nudging the tankard forward, "is warm." The barkeep flinched.

"Ah. Yes. Sorry about that." Rabban leaned closer, filling the man's vision.

"Ale," he said carefully, "is not meant to be warm."

"I know," the barkeep said quickly, palms lifting.

"Our mage quit. The one who kept the drinks chilled, and I haven't found a replacement yet." Rabban stared at him. Warm ale. No mage. The implications were… severe. He turned without another word, returned to his bench, sat down heavily, and stared at the tankard. For a long moment, his mind simply refused to engage with the situation. Then he sighed. With obvious reluctance, Rabban decided to spend one of his precious Ability Points.

He scrolled through the Ice Magic section, skipping anything meant for combat or control, until he found what he needed. A channeled spell. He hated channeled spells, but some sacrifices were simply necessary. Rabban wrapped his hand around the tankard and began channeling. The temperature dropped rapidly. Then, abruptly, the ale froze solid. Rabban stared at it in utter disbelief. How? Why? What had he done to deserve this?

He turned the tankard upside down and banged it on the table a few times until the frozen ale slid out. Taking out his knife, he chipped off small pieces and sucked on them. Eventually, even that was not enough. With a grunt, he drove the knife straight into the middle of the frozen ale and began licking it like a popsicle. It was not perfect, but frozen ale was still better than warm ale. You could not win them all.