"Sir?"
"Hm?" Krow blinked.
"It has been three minutes. You must lay out your verdict or move to the next cask."
The woman placed a new drinking cup in front of him, lifting the empty one into a tray held by an assistant.
She started to fill it to the brim.
Krow was beginning to think this tradition was a test of how functionally drunk a person could get. He was on the ninth cask already, and his head swirled like a kaleidoscope in a whirlpool.
The dwarvir at the table eyed him with a slightly impressed expression.
Major Intoxication, warned his status, like it had been doing since the fifth cask.
His HP started to slowly tick down by increments of -1 point per second.
And this was only the pregame.
How did people survive this festival?
Did the Zushkenari have extra livers he didn't know about?
He wouldn't be surprised if the dwarvir race did, actually.
