A Touch of Creative Flair

The onset of winter had hit the lands hard and quick. Autumn seemed to be gone in a puff, replace by the harsher realities of lean times. Aesir faced the days as most predators did, with grim determination and drive for survival... and also growing boredom. The world around him seemed to slumber. Bird did not sing so loudly in the mornings, there were no bugs to buzz in his ears or leaves rustling in the trees. The clacking of barren branches was a poor substitute for the orchestra of a spring bloom. The warrior brute felt like he was spending his days surrounded by endless fields of dull grey, occasional snows, and sleet storms. It was a bit of a drag but luckily, he had a solution.

Alcohol.

At the end of the prior season he had stumbled upon a grove of fruit trees. Ever the investor, Aesir had squirreled some away. He was no stranger to the fermentation of beverages or their delightful after effects, so the prospect of resuming a beloved habit in these new lands wasn't one he was going to pass up.  But there was one hurdle he would have to overcome for this new goal to be realized. He would have to find somewhere to put it.

Back home there were skilled craftsmen and various species of servant animals to assist creative types in making all sorts of useful tools, pots and jars included. Until being forced to leave, Aesir had never really considered the logistics behind it all. Prior to exile if he wanted a drink he would make his way to the market with a plump hare or two and get himself appropriately swilled. This was going to take a smidge more planning.

First order of business was some sort of container. He'd seen all sorts of odd bits and bobs used, but the easiest he was likely to make himself would probably come from clay. So he'd made his way towards the sound of running water, thankful that the freeze had the babbling stream running low. He trekked along its bank for a time before coming at last upon what he'd hoped for. A long, slick bank of clay lay exposed above the retreated waterline, untouched except for the wandering tracks of a days-gone raccoon. He sat and looked about, fully intending to make sure he had all of his thoughts in line before beginning. One did not simply rush the production of something as important as booze. No, no. He would have to take his time.

"Aesir Speaks" "Aesir Listens" Aesir Thinks
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