Draknar considered the bottle in his mailed fist. “Nope. Let’s try that one.” He pointed the dread sword Soulspike at the whiskey section.
Scratnik clambered up the shelves. “This one, master?”
“Yes. Fetch it here.” Draknar shifted, sending empty bottles tumbling down from the pile. Outside, red and blue lights drew near, causing the Fellsteed to snort nervous flames.
“Silence! I wish to experience drunken revelry. My spells tell me this is how it’s done.”
There was a gurgle as Draknar drained the bottle. He tossed it aside and smacked his lips. “Bah. Perhaps… that one.”
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