This article is part of the The Great Authors Series series.
Ballast Point Sculpin IPA
In the lee of the Humos Spire I made camp with a Bathrobi hewt trader. I showed him the coreolis gems I had recovered form the crash in the Beckon Veld. He thought there was some value to them, so we began the ritual negotiations which involved waving our arms in carefully predetermined manners and various angry curses. I pronounced that he was trying to drain the blood from my lobes. He declared that I wanted his Pawdala to go hungry. I had no great taste for hewt as it breeds the heart's fear and sends me on the path of the Shaken Orbs. Instead, I traded three of my largest gems for a single bottle of Ballast Point Sculpin IPA bought from the Dowser Trolley in the deep veld.
The beer was served warm in an oilglass with a twist of Hollabak root. I do not normally flavor beers, but the hewt trader insisted. The beer poured golden, cloudy, with a cap of clean white atop my glass. The smell reminded me of the pines of the northlands with a hint of citrus. It was crisp and refreshing with a taste that was only a little bit like the engine belt of an automobile. Some people like that taste. That rooty, bitter, grease-rag from a diaper drawer flavor. I prefer my brew's to be milder.
As I drank the last of this heavenly brew, I spotted a Veld Horse. It lashed the sky with lightning and its hundred eyes rolled in its sickening head as it came for us. I managed to escape with my life and little else. Although I heard the terrible screams of the hewt trader, all I could think about was the delicious Ballast Point Sclupin I drank.
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