It also doubled as he would find, a common ground to truly melt the icy vindication that Lockes on their own, could not have so easily drowned out, and the two could talk for hours on end, much to Vye's dismay, on the different cups, their imbued depth, imparting flavor, and unique qualities.
Vye thought it all tasted downright terrible. End of story.
With a chuckle, the dark Shol told him that it was an acquired taste, one which he would grow fond of, given Time. Something the young Vye adamantly refused to believe.
The first Time Lockes passed out drinks, Zeal had gratefully accepted his share. And it seemed then that an odd look passed through the Bluepine's eyes. One that left him skeptical.
Surely the Bluepine would not expend so much in his recovery just to off him here. If not for the wasted effort, then the repercussion of Vye's distrust. That and it had been poured from the same bottle. Even if this be some unpleasant prank, of which the Shols themselves were immune to, he was not so weak as to succumb to a little stomachache or diuretic herb.
You spoke of trust, aye? Then let it be mutual.
So he took a chance then, and downed the entire cup.
He would bite the bullet, come what way. It mattered not, really. So long as whatever it be, set the Bluepine at ease.
Thankfully it proved to be neither, but he did note that whatever drink Lockes doled out, the Reaper's portions became much more generous.
It spoke unsaid volumes.
I accept you.
Yet the such subtle changes in hospitality wasn't the most startling change. During these Times, the severed Shol exchanged words in what could almost be deemed fond. Zeal had been taken aback to find himself with such a comfortable conversational partner, let alone thoroughly integrated into the sociable aspects of their evening.
Unusual behavior, all of it, given the Shol. Something Zeal would (incorrectly) attribute it to the alcohol.
As it turned out, it was not a lack of restraint from excessive alcoholic consumption, but rather the mood it set.
Drinking was, in the same way, social for them just as it was in the Sanctums. That is, if one were to gain additional insight or reminiscent qualities discerned from imbibing upon the substances, and to lose the pleasant stupor and likewise vengeful hangover the next day.
The copious quantities they consumed in the evenings were, quoted verbatim from Lockes, a "minor indulgence". Somehow the Seeker questioned whether the children of the Verdance could be drunk at all. A matter the Seeker discovered at a later date, but was nonetheless astounded by.
It was unlikely it had any effect on Shols. Or at least, not without a vast amount of it.
Nay, such mellowness stemmed not from the bottle, but the sentimentality of which the occasions reminded Lockes of, and the Bluepine was simply falling into pace with the nostalgia. In those Times, they were laid-back, letting go and falling into the swing of things. It was a well veiled moment of vulnerability that they were trusting him with, Zeal came to realize. Permitting themselves to fall into a sociable lull, relaxing and lowering their guard in h is presence.
I'm trusting you.
It was a staggering amount the dark Shol was placing in him, and given the disparity of their backgrounds, it was unbelievable. Yet he dared not call the other foolish, though they both knew it could be but that, for it was this redemption that had been what he sought for all this Time.
The sheer variety of meads, ciders, ale, wines, rum, gin, brandy, whiskey, beers, cognacs, and more, were staggering, and in such ridiculously large quantities. Barrels the full girth of a century old redwood were but some of the smaller kegs of the stores.
And oddly enough it was through the cellar that Zeal would take the most of Sholian culture, history, and innovation.
Once, he had asked how the Shols of the Alps were able to procure such quantity and variety when little grew up high.
"We've not much of an agenda with which to squander Time. Consider it a passionate hobby." Lockes had hummed back, "And it is not an everlasting Winter here in the Alps. When the harbingers of Spring reawaken to trill their rousing Song, so too does the dormant life of this land stir from lengthy sleep."
Life sprung forth as the seasons warmed, and much of basis of their cultivation came from their of foliage, so adoringly cared for.
Memories of their harvest and celebrations saw the Bluepine seeing not the cellar before them, but those who had once helped in their making, "It is not an everlasting Winter here in the Alps. When the harbingers of Spring reawaken to trill their rousing Song, so too does the dormant life of this land stir from lengthy sleep."
The young coties would oft sneak in to nab an easy bite, as they worked, spiriting away a clipping of their haul to nibble elsewhere, as it was the veterans of the trade who were most adept at foraging, or who bore the best cultivation.
One Firebloom Coty in particular, Lockes thought, not without a small stirring of fond exasperation, had nibbled off one of the fiddleheads from the Bluepine's foliage whilst they slept. They had been saving that one and was displeased to find it gone upon rousing.
Lockes had intended to march over and give the other Shol a solid thump for such audacity. Only to discover a hefty satchel of various foraged berries and roots beside them. Not the best to be found, if not a little tart, but it was evidently a collection of their best find.
Afterwards the Bluepine had sought out the young Shol and taken them under wing. Had found the Firebloom to be an unusually timid individual Their subspecies was quite unusual, and the young Shol themselves little control over their bio-luminescence. It made for unintentional light shows and undesired attention.
Still, with a bit of patience and gentle coaxing, the Firebloom had blossomed as one of their most brilliant individuals, such that they rivaled the North Star themselves in their radiance.
A radiance with which they had so desperately tried to save their Circle, blinding the Reapers with firefly bursts.
And had been, like the same dainty Autumnal insect, pinned in morbid display against a towering fir tree for all to see.
The thin metallic needles had been cruelly barbed and protruded at odd angles, affixed to not only their dear protege, but the evergreen behind them.
Pained eyes blown wide with fright, had darted to Lockes, but the Bluepine could do nothing as the Reapers advanced.
And tore those brilliant eyes from their sockets.
Lockes swallowed the cotton in their mouth, shaking off the translucent shades of a Time past, and the rising nausea.
Zeal shot a furtive glance down when the severed Shol shuddered, stopping altogether when a hand rose to cover their mouth, as if soon to be ill, "Is aught amiss?"
But whatever it is that ailed them soon passed, the sentiment unheard or perhaps ignored.
"... If it is not found here, well. As you must know, our Circles are linked, Seeker. What we lack, we obtain from others. Yet know that much of what you see is a specialty of our Ring, for just as the glacial stream, environment, and microorganisms here are unique to us, so too is it true for the others."
The Bluepine had informed him afterwards that should he desire a taste of what other Circles had to offer, what smaller bottles they carried were exactly that. These smaller flasks were meant to be gifted, for transference of such large vats were nigh impossible by their limited means, and as such, smaller vessels were necessary to make it possible to bring through.
Most bottles present contained a souvenir from their kin, for they were not bottled for the occasion, but for the one to come in the years following, and were usually crafted, and given as soon as they had set, to culture in their unique climes. Those they brought that were ready, were often drunk at the immediate occasion.
They presented to him a few brews that they would savor in the following nights, and the anticipation nigh hummed in him. It was a keenness he'd thought past him, and not once had it stirred with such intensity.
Greater still was his fervor when Lockes revealed the signature Alpione specialty.
Ice wine.
Even by those of the Alpione Ring it was sought after, their quantity small for the sheer circumstantial necessities, and pristine stock.
This Lockes promised would fill their cups--at a later date. The disappointment was hard to brush aside and he had to settle for the comfort of knowing that the Bluepine was sharing the Alpione Stores at all. Thankfully the severed Shol seemed not to notice.
They wandered down the many odd twists and aisles of the cellar, each a tantalizing find.
From enormous wooden casks he gleamed the age and quality of the wood, and the trees that were abundant enough to harvest. The quality of the drink itself told of the harvest, and the ingredients, of the plethora of the Verdance available at the Time. The design behind the nail-less casks were an ingenious feat of Shol engineering. From the dredges he realized that the tantalizing flavors imbued were of plants long extinct, and it pained him greatly to realize that the drink he savored would be but once in a lifetime.
Not that the Lockboxes had eluded him, but it seemed so very foreign and difficult to connect with. And he knew for a fact that Vye experienced so much more that he would never be able to grasp, not being of their kind. Something about the Heart's Song, and feeling the residual aether, the carvings, and grain of whatever the composite material was. Sometimes it seemed there was more there than there was on the Enigma itself, as proven once when Vye practically glowing and hugged, what Zeal swore upon, was a plain block of wood.
No exaggeration. Quite literally, it was a wooden block with no seam nor hinge, as if it had been clean cut off the end of plank and polished. Yet Vye had treated it was if it was of the divine, the way he cradled and cherished it.
The severed Shol did try to explain some, but the odd tongue by which Shols did speak in their rare moments of verbal communication, were lost to him, much to their disappointment.
But it mattered not, their fondness and appreciation for the finesse of brewing was more than enough to bond over.
Still Lockes was relentless, and given some Time, Zeal came to understand some of their odd, stinted speech.
The odd liquid "click" of their tongue followed by a smaller pop indicated heat, heat like that of fire.
But not all of their gesticulations and vocalizations were so foreign to him.
Once in a while Lockes would 'tsk' at him.
It meant exactly what he thought it meant, much to his chagrin.
Sometimes he swore the Bluepine would randomly click at him while he was in the midst of something just to peeve.
And, as if simply to fan the flames, Lockes had taken to learning the jargon, and would smugly utter the common tongue, far quicker on the uptake. To be fair, it was far more difficult to reproduce the intricate, oft subtle, vocalizations of Shols than it was to speak the common tongue, but that didn't make it any less annoying when the Bluepine's smile curled up in that teasing quirk. That and Zeal was a much kinder tutor than the severed Shol. One that was half as playful and twice more thorough in explanation.
Lockes may have been patient and understanding with Vye, but the same could not be said for Zeal, and they were much more prone to teasing and distracting the Reaper. A thought that frightened them greatly, for they had once committed the same folly, and payed a grave price far more precious than any material good could ever come close to.
It was absolute madness. Ludicrous. Only fools would repeat the same mistake, and the dark Shol berated themselves heavily, the chiding voice keeping them reigned in when they were nigh swept away by the oh so ephemeral sense of comfort in the merry and normality. This was a peace that would not last.
But Zeal wasn't him.
And the severed Shol found the company far too amiable. So much so that closing themselves off seemed far more painful than what may lie ahead. A foolish and short-sighted notion, to be sure, and they would doubtlessly reap what they had sown. But one Lockes entertained nonetheless. It had been a lonely century spent in the Alps, with not even the Verdance that resided in all Shols, to accompany them.
So they had allowed themselves to continue in this odd farce that slowly gave way to genuine kinship.
Meanwhile there could have been no better surprise for Zeal, who was pleased to find that Shols--if Lockes were to be believed--were quite fond of their drink. One would not think such a small creature capable of consuming such vast amounts of alcohol. Their diminutive forms, sweet smile, and innocent eyes, all of which belied their staggering, and seemingly nigh endless tolerance for the bottle. Perhaps it was due to the biological processes that differed so greatly to those of flesh and blood, by which the small botanical creatures functioned.
Zeal had stared with open astonishment, mesmerized the first Time Lockes casually downed an entire bottle.
Unnerved already by the Reaper's sharp gaze, let alone to be the subject of, the Bluepine fidgeted and threw a befuddled, "What?" his way.
"It's nothing." He really shouldn't have been surprised.
Lockes in turn was delighted that their new drinking companion's senses were so keen as to discern the subtleties of the spices, their mix, and the tempering of each concotion. Sharp enough to, from scent alone, tell whether the year bore a bounty, or poor harvest. Though the terminology Vye's protector used were lost to them, just as their's were to Zeal, the Bluepine found themselves helplessly enamored and at every turn impressed. The Reaper certainly didn't disappoint. Something that had given them more then enough to mull over in the late hours or deep into their mugs.
The Bluepine. Fond. Of a Reaper?
What absurdity was this? And yet they found themselves using the term, for the first--an there were very few of those nowadays with how long Lockes lived--using the moniker almost affectionately.
Perhaps this is for the better.
After partaking of one particular bottle, Zeal had grimaced.
"Is something the matter?" Lockes had asked. The Alpione Shole sniffed at the lip of their own flagon, taking a tentative sip. A sweet and mellow warmth washed over their lips and Lockes swallowed, taking a moment to relish as they felt the blazing heat trickle down. Just clover mead. No contaminants laced in it, nor had it spoiled.
They snuck a sidelong glance at the Seeker. Pity if it were not to his tastes, this kind of spiced mead was one not oft seen in the Alps, but of which they themselves were fondest of.
But the Reaper shook his head, "The drink is fine, mellow and with a tantalizing residual heat I've not oft seen in its kind--truly exquisite." he murmured, glanced at his cup again, contemplative, "... a fruit borne of a bitter season."
The dark Shol started, "What makes you say that?"
"The mead tastes--" Zeal caught himself. Lockes wouldn't understand half, if any of the lingo. While Lockes understood a good deal of the common tongue, an impressive feat given the almost shy and borderline reclusive nature of Shols as a whole, such jargon would be lost to them. Instead he settles for a simple, "It tastes... bitter. Harsh, as if stressed. The ingredients are pure, but in themselves, poor."
Lockes nodded slowly, "You're perceptive. Nature was not kind that year, and the Verdance's bounty was skim in its succor down in the valley." There wasn't much nectar to go around, nor variety in the flowers from which to draw from, not after the fauna's needs.
Indeed their Lowland brethren had been hard pressed for sustenance, and unable to partake of the Verdance's bounty without overburdening the local fauna, they had sought succor from the Alpione Ring. There, they overwintered, hibernating.
Such rendezvous were commonplace. But that year had been difficult, even in the highlands, for the wintry chill had been quick to overtake Autumn, and slow to relent to Spring's forthcoming. Their foraged hoards were spread thin to accommodate for the necessary nourishment of their displaced kin's awakening--and to ensure that it did come, when the harbingers sung of Winter's end. But it was a reunion nonetheless, and what they lacked in their belly, they made up for with song and dance, and a hearty fire in the hearth.
When the bitter cold finally gave way, and Spring at last returned to the valley, did their Lowland kin bid farewell and impart a couple of the few bottled meads that they had been able to acquire that year.
Such was the way of Nature, of which governed existence itself, be they the children of Sol, those adorned with the foliage of the Verdance, or otherwise.
Shols were not complex. Carefree little tricksters that were just a touch shy, yet warm and rambunctious all the same.
Lazy in the Winter, lively in the Spring.
Well.
Once were, anyhow.
Vye thought it all tasted downright terrible. End of story.
With a chuckle, the dark Shol told him that it was an acquired taste, one which he would grow fond of, given Time. Something the young Vye adamantly refused to believe.
The first Time Lockes passed out drinks, Zeal had gratefully accepted his share. And it seemed then that an odd look passed through the Bluepine's eyes. One that left him skeptical.
Surely the Bluepine would not expend so much in his recovery just to off him here. If not for the wasted effort, then the repercussion of Vye's distrust. That and it had been poured from the same bottle. Even if this be some unpleasant prank, of which the Shols themselves were immune to, he was not so weak as to succumb to a little stomachache or diuretic herb.
You spoke of trust, aye? Then let it be mutual.
He would bite the bullet, come what way. It mattered not, really. So long as whatever it be, set the Bluepine at ease.
It spoke unsaid volumes.
Yet the such subtle changes in hospitality wasn't the most startling change. During these Times, the severed Shol exchanged words in what could almost be deemed fond. Zeal had been taken aback to find himself with such a comfortable conversational partner, let alone thoroughly integrated into the sociable aspects of their evening.
Unusual behavior, all of it, given the Shol. Something Zeal would (incorrectly) attribute it to the alcohol.
As it turned out, it was not a lack of restraint from excessive alcoholic consumption, but rather the mood it set.
Drinking was, in the same way, social for them just as it was in the Sanctums. That is, if one were to gain additional insight or reminiscent qualities discerned from imbibing upon the substances, and to lose the pleasant stupor and likewise vengeful hangover the next day.
The copious quantities they consumed in the evenings were, quoted verbatim from Lockes, a "minor indulgence". Somehow the Seeker questioned whether the children of the Verdance could be drunk at all. A matter the Seeker discovered at a later date, but was nonetheless astounded by.
It was unlikely it had any effect on Shols. Or at least, not without a vast amount of it.
I'm trusting you.
It was a staggering amount the dark Shol was placing in him, and given the disparity of their backgrounds, it was unbelievable. Yet he dared not call the other foolish, though they both knew it could be but that, for it was this redemption that had been what he sought for all this Time.
The sheer variety of meads, ciders, ale, wines, rum, gin, brandy, whiskey, beers, cognacs, and more, were staggering, and in such ridiculously large quantities. Barrels the full girth of a century old redwood were but some of the smaller kegs of the stores.
And oddly enough it was through the cellar that Zeal would take the most of Sholian culture, history, and innovation.
Once, he had asked how the Shols of the Alps were able to procure such quantity and variety when little grew up high.
"We've not much of an agenda with which to squander Time. Consider it a passionate hobby." Lockes had hummed back, "And it is not an everlasting Winter here in the Alps. When the harbingers of Spring reawaken to trill their rousing Song, so too does the dormant life of this land stir from lengthy sleep."
Life sprung forth as the seasons warmed, and much of basis of their cultivation came from their of foliage, so adoringly cared for.
Memories of their harvest and celebrations saw the Bluepine seeing not the cellar before them, but those who had once helped in their making, "It is not an everlasting Winter here in the Alps. When the harbingers of Spring reawaken to trill their rousing Song, so too does the dormant life of this land stir from lengthy sleep."
The young coties would oft sneak in to nab an easy bite, as they worked, spiriting away a clipping of their haul to nibble elsewhere, as it was the veterans of the trade who were most adept at foraging, or who bore the best cultivation.
One Firebloom Coty in particular, Lockes thought, not without a small stirring of fond exasperation, had nibbled off one of the fiddleheads from the Bluepine's foliage whilst they slept. They had been saving that one and was displeased to find it gone upon rousing.
Lockes had intended to march over and give the other Shol a solid thump for such audacity. Only to discover a hefty satchel of various foraged berries and roots beside them. Not the best to be found, if not a little tart, but it was evidently a collection of their best find.
Afterwards the Bluepine had sought out the young Shol and taken them under wing. Had found the Firebloom to be an unusually timid individual Their subspecies was quite unusual, and the young Shol themselves little control over their bio-luminescence. It made for unintentional light shows and undesired attention.
Still, with a bit of patience and gentle coaxing, the Firebloom had blossomed as one of their most brilliant individuals, such that they rivaled the North Star themselves in their radiance.
A radiance with which they had so desperately tried to save their Circle, blinding the Reapers with firefly bursts.
And had been, like the same dainty Autumnal insect, pinned in morbid display against a towering fir tree for all to see.
The thin metallic needles had been cruelly barbed and protruded at odd angles, affixed to not only their dear protege, but the evergreen behind them.
Pained eyes blown wide with fright, had darted to Lockes, but the Bluepine could do nothing as the Reapers advanced.
And tore those brilliant eyes from their sockets.
Lockes swallowed the cotton in their mouth, shaking off the translucent shades of a Time past, and the rising nausea.
Zeal shot a furtive glance down when the severed Shol shuddered, stopping altogether when a hand rose to cover their mouth, as if soon to be ill, "Is aught amiss?"
But whatever it is that ailed them soon passed, the sentiment unheard or perhaps ignored.
"... If it is not found here, well. As you must know, our Circles are linked, Seeker. What we lack, we obtain from others. Yet know that much of what you see is a specialty of our Ring, for just as the glacial stream, environment, and microorganisms here are unique to us, so too is it true for the others."
The Bluepine had informed him afterwards that should he desire a taste of what other Circles had to offer, what smaller bottles they carried were exactly that. These smaller flasks were meant to be gifted, for transference of such large vats were nigh impossible by their limited means, and as such, smaller vessels were necessary to make it possible to bring through.
Most bottles present contained a souvenir from their kin, for they were not bottled for the occasion, but for the one to come in the years following, and were usually crafted, and given as soon as they had set, to culture in their unique climes. Those they brought that were ready, were often drunk at the immediate occasion.
They presented to him a few brews that they would savor in the following nights, and the anticipation nigh hummed in him. It was a keenness he'd thought past him, and not once had it stirred with such intensity.
Greater still was his fervor when Lockes revealed the signature Alpione specialty.
Ice wine.
Even by those of the Alpione Ring it was sought after, their quantity small for the sheer circumstantial necessities, and pristine stock.
This Lockes promised would fill their cups--at a later date. The disappointment was hard to brush aside and he had to settle for the comfort of knowing that the Bluepine was sharing the Alpione Stores at all. Thankfully the severed Shol seemed not to notice.
They wandered down the many odd twists and aisles of the cellar, each a tantalizing find.
From enormous wooden casks he gleamed the age and quality of the wood, and the trees that were abundant enough to harvest. The quality of the drink itself told of the harvest, and the ingredients, of the plethora of the Verdance available at the Time. The design behind the nail-less casks were an ingenious feat of Shol engineering. From the dredges he realized that the tantalizing flavors imbued were of plants long extinct, and it pained him greatly to realize that the drink he savored would be but once in a lifetime.
Not that the Lockboxes had eluded him, but it seemed so very foreign and difficult to connect with. And he knew for a fact that Vye experienced so much more that he would never be able to grasp, not being of their kind. Something about the Heart's Song, and feeling the residual aether, the carvings, and grain of whatever the composite material was. Sometimes it seemed there was more there than there was on the Enigma itself, as proven once when Vye practically glowing and hugged, what Zeal swore upon, was a plain block of wood.
No exaggeration. Quite literally, it was a wooden block with no seam nor hinge, as if it had been clean cut off the end of plank and polished. Yet Vye had treated it was if it was of the divine, the way he cradled and cherished it.
The severed Shol did try to explain some, but the odd tongue by which Shols did speak in their rare moments of verbal communication, were lost to him, much to their disappointment.
The odd liquid "click" of their tongue followed by a smaller pop indicated heat, heat like that of fire.
But not all of their gesticulations and vocalizations were so foreign to him.
Once in a while Lockes would 'tsk' at him.
It meant exactly what he thought it meant, much to his chagrin.
Sometimes he swore the Bluepine would randomly click at him while he was in the midst of something just to peeve.
And, as if simply to fan the flames, Lockes had taken to learning the jargon, and would smugly utter the common tongue, far quicker on the uptake. To be fair, it was far more difficult to reproduce the intricate, oft subtle, vocalizations of Shols than it was to speak the common tongue, but that didn't make it any less annoying when the Bluepine's smile curled up in that teasing quirk. That and Zeal was a much kinder tutor than the severed Shol. One that was half as playful and twice more thorough in explanation.
Lockes may have been patient and understanding with Vye, but the same could not be said for Zeal, and they were much more prone to teasing and distracting the Reaper. A thought that frightened them greatly, for they had once committed the same folly, and payed a grave price far more precious than any material good could ever come close to.
It was absolute madness. Ludicrous. Only fools would repeat the same mistake, and the dark Shol berated themselves heavily, the chiding voice keeping them reigned in when they were nigh swept away by the oh so ephemeral sense of comfort in the merry and normality. This was a peace that would not last.
But Zeal wasn't him.
And the severed Shol found the company far too amiable. So much so that closing themselves off seemed far more painful than what may lie ahead. A foolish and short-sighted notion, to be sure, and they would doubtlessly reap what they had sown. But one Lockes entertained nonetheless. It had been a lonely century spent in the Alps, with not even the Verdance that resided in all Shols, to accompany them.
So they had allowed themselves to continue in this odd farce that slowly gave way to genuine kinship.
Meanwhile there could have been no better surprise for Zeal, who was pleased to find that Shols--if Lockes were to be believed--were quite fond of their drink. One would not think such a small creature capable of consuming such vast amounts of alcohol. Their diminutive forms, sweet smile, and innocent eyes, all of which belied their staggering, and seemingly nigh endless tolerance for the bottle. Perhaps it was due to the biological processes that differed so greatly to those of flesh and blood, by which the small botanical creatures functioned.
Zeal had stared with open astonishment, mesmerized the first Time Lockes casually downed an entire bottle.
Unnerved already by the Reaper's sharp gaze, let alone to be the subject of, the Bluepine fidgeted and threw a befuddled, "What?" his way.
"It's nothing." He really shouldn't have been surprised.
Lockes in turn was delighted that their new drinking companion's senses were so keen as to discern the subtleties of the spices, their mix, and the tempering of each concotion. Sharp enough to, from scent alone, tell whether the year bore a bounty, or poor harvest. Though the terminology Vye's protector used were lost to them, just as their's were to Zeal, the Bluepine found themselves helplessly enamored and at every turn impressed. The Reaper certainly didn't disappoint. Something that had given them more then enough to mull over in the late hours or deep into their mugs.
The Bluepine. Fond. Of a Reaper?
What absurdity was this? And yet they found themselves using the term, for the first--an there were very few of those nowadays with how long Lockes lived--using the moniker almost affectionately.
Perhaps this is for the better.
After partaking of one particular bottle, Zeal had grimaced.
"Is something the matter?" Lockes had asked. The Alpione Shole sniffed at the lip of their own flagon, taking a tentative sip. A sweet and mellow warmth washed over their lips and Lockes swallowed, taking a moment to relish as they felt the blazing heat trickle down. Just clover mead. No contaminants laced in it, nor had it spoiled.
They snuck a sidelong glance at the Seeker. Pity if it were not to his tastes, this kind of spiced mead was one not oft seen in the Alps, but of which they themselves were fondest of.
But the Reaper shook his head, "The drink is fine, mellow and with a tantalizing residual heat I've not oft seen in its kind--truly exquisite." he murmured, glanced at his cup again, contemplative, "... a fruit borne of a bitter season."
"The mead tastes--" Zeal caught himself. Lockes wouldn't understand half, if any of the lingo. While Lockes understood a good deal of the common tongue, an impressive feat given the almost shy and borderline reclusive nature of Shols as a whole, such jargon would be lost to them. Instead he settles for a simple, "It tastes... bitter. Harsh, as if stressed. The ingredients are pure, but in themselves, poor."
Lockes nodded slowly, "You're perceptive. Nature was not kind that year, and the Verdance's bounty was skim in its succor down in the valley." There wasn't much nectar to go around, nor variety in the flowers from which to draw from, not after the fauna's needs.
Indeed their Lowland brethren had been hard pressed for sustenance, and unable to partake of the Verdance's bounty without overburdening the local fauna, they had sought succor from the Alpione Ring. There, they overwintered, hibernating.
Such rendezvous were commonplace. But that year had been difficult, even in the highlands, for the wintry chill had been quick to overtake Autumn, and slow to relent to Spring's forthcoming. Their foraged hoards were spread thin to accommodate for the necessary nourishment of their displaced kin's awakening--and to ensure that it did come, when the harbingers sung of Winter's end. But it was a reunion nonetheless, and what they lacked in their belly, they made up for with song and dance, and a hearty fire in the hearth.
When the bitter cold finally gave way, and Spring at last returned to the valley, did their Lowland kin bid farewell and impart a couple of the few bottled meads that they had been able to acquire that year.
Such was the way of Nature, of which governed existence itself, be they the children of Sol, those adorned with the foliage of the Verdance, or otherwise.
Shols were not complex. Carefree little tricksters that were just a touch shy, yet warm and rambunctious all the same.
Lazy in the Winter, lively in the Spring.
Well.
Once were, anyhow.
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