Pericles, Prince of Tyre

"A little tame, for you, don't you think, Minoth? I'd have thought you were out in the wilderness making moonshine, of all things."

Expression dimmed to half lids, Minoth ignored Addam's little taunt about the proof percentage of his chosen poison. For all the poor prince knew, whiskey was moonshine to Blades, and Flesh Eaters in particular. Oh, he'd find some way to spin it in his favor regardless. Addam knew that.

He thumped his heels in the grass, feeling the give of the dirt beneath and the grit of the stone upon which he sat.

The way Minoth saw it, there were two defining factors about your liquor of choice, and how strong it was.

First, what it did to you as you drank it: did you cough, spit, salivate, go dry? Did you have to splutter, or could you get it down smooth?

Second, what it did to you as the night wore on: did you list from side to side, round and round, unable to keep your balance any longer? Did you spill your deepest and fondest guts, or did you grow pensive, restive, moody and broody?

This miniature bottle that Minoth held at the moment, illuminated by a slice of moonlight across its absent label, packed a punch both ways. Not only did it make its presence known on the way down, but it was a guest that nearly overstayed its welcome, on the usual.

Minoth had no commentary to offer on how anyone else would or wouldn't enjoy it. Personally, he liked that the sharpness of the alcohol overrid the meat of the cinnamon flavor; stopped it from getting over-sweet, cloying.

His saving grace when he wrote: always a stinger hidden among the purple prose.

"You want a sip, Addam?"

Addam puffed out a laugh. "You think you're dealing me a pretty hand, don't you? You think I'm gullible."

As Addam hacked away on the fumes of Fireball, Minoth just sympathetically rubbed his back, without saying a word.