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Lirriel's picture

Arkav took the week off work. He doubted many would care or notice, which was exactly what he wanted at this particular time of year. He’d spent weeks dreading Brewfest.

He was thankful for the new home on the mountain’s northern face, looking over Menethil Harbor. It was a long ride through the corridors each day—unless Xillia gave him a portal—but it was worth it to be in the air and rain again. It was still chill, but that was all right.

For now, he planned the vacation with his three best friends, or worked on building his small home forge, and utterly ignored the festivities. The food wasn’t bad; delightfully greasy, or salty, or both, and with a warm, rich taste. Ram racing was fun, once you got the stubborn beasts to listen—he still preferred to watch others, as he never got along with the goats. Wolpertingers were cute, if you could catch a glimpse.

He just had to avoid the beer, and that was impossible to do at the fairgrounds.

At the tapping of the keg, everyone received a mug and it was rude if you didn’t quaff it. Free samples dotted the grounds. Some games required hefty drinking to participate. Barking for the different vendors gave samples. Everyone had new recipes to test and try and judge.

Arkav couldn’t have a single one.

He was afraid of what even one sip would do; there were days in the forge, among his mostly dwarven colleagues, where the cravings struck hard and strong. The monk would take a break then, leap on his bike or Scribble and head outside the city. He could let the cold air of Dun Morogh wash over him, the smell of pine wafting away the scent of booze. He would meditate for a time and then return to his duties steadier, having beaten the moment of weakness.

That wasn’t so easy during the festival dedicated to alcoholic beverages that filled Ironforge and spilled outside. So Arkav simply avoided his new home city, and the temptations provided by well-meaning festival barkers and attendees.

Maybe someday he wouldn’t feel this need, the shaking of his hands, the thirst that drove him away. For now, though, he took a deep breath, centered himself, and wrote itinerary notes. He took a long drink from his glass of sweet, cold milk and sighed.

It didn’t have the bite part of him longed for.


Darlain's picture

((I really liked this,

((I really liked this, showing the rougher times Arkav faces, and how diciplined he has to be to keep himself from slipping down that slope.))