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month record rogue 5 4 1
After successive years of Catastrophe, famine loomed over the land. To combat this shortage of grain, the Yan of eld proclaimed a series of decrees, including one that banned alcohol. As such, the wretched masses lost the last bit of happiness they had to console themselves with. While the rich and elite also felt some sting, it was not impossible for a wine-loving mandarin to find a private source. For a while, wine was an extravagance, one that demanded not just coin but also influence for a few measly sips.
It is under these circumstances that an Ode to Finest Wine spreading across the streets came to the attention of the court. There is a line in it that goes 'For whom do spring waters surrender, brewed by mortal hands into finest wine'—This has to be talking about brewing moonshine, right? That is a crime most grave!
After some investigating, the writer of this ode is none other than a popular folk poet, and her words about the exquisite taste of moonshine have captivated the spirit of the people. No wine passes their lips, yet the poem leaves them intoxicated. With the ban having been in place for some time, who could restrain themselves after reading such alluring words?
Rumor has it that this poet is ordinarily the elusive sort, yet she has lately come to stay at a cottage at the foot of the mount. Soon, the mandarins surround that shabby, dilapidated thatched cottage. All they smell is the piercing scent of alcohol, mixed with a heady fragrance of flowers. A smell rarely found within the mortal realm, one that had all gathered salivating. They see commoners sneaking about around the cottage taking peeks. Surely they did not limit themselves to brewing and drinking this wine themselves. They must be smuggling it, too!
With a wave of a mandarin's hand, the commoners are arrested. Then, they knock upon the door. The one within is a great writer, popular with the people. It would be uncouth to treat her like a common boor.
The door opens with a creak, and everyone cranes their necks towards the cottage's interior. All they see is a cluttered pile of wine jugs, the intoxicating smell of alcohol all the stronger around it. Among the jugs, a single person can be seen. The poet in question, it seems. She takes no heed of her guests, raising her head to inspect the wine in her cup, composing a poem of praise as she does so. From her litany of words, it seems this brew is one that even the Xian would yearn for, and now it was here in the mortal realm. All present begin drooling after hearing this.
The leader of the mandarins steps forward to reproach her. 'What is that you have there in your hand?'
The poet gives a toast. 'A cup laden with spring.' The mandarin looks to where her hand is pointing. The holes in the walls of the cottage frame a mountain view, yet the view through each hole is different.
The mandarin continues his stern rebuke. 'Have you not heard of the ban on alcohol? Not only have you brewed in private, but you have also written poems that disrupt social order. Yet another crime.'
'What grain there was has been sent for disaster's relief. With flower and honey of mount—alongside some leftover rice wine—did I brew a few jugs. A flavor most distinctive.' Having spoken, the poet performed a gesture that said 'pray, partake'. Seeing a few cups on the table, the mandarins look at one another with hesitation.
'True, flowers and honey do not necessarily brew into wine. Before we accuse you of this crime, we must first prove that what you drink is liquor.' The lead mandarin raises his voice as he says this, being the first to pick up a cup. Seeing his subordinates frozen in place, he orders them to pick up cups as well. Their eyes meet, and they all know one thing: this matter stays here. If they confiscate this wine and pass it to their superiors, how will they ever have their own share?
Everyone quickly wrests open the jugs, ladling out this legendary brew. They carefully smell it, and cherish the taste. After a sip, their complexions change. This wine... it seems...
Sour, and incredibly bitter to boot.
However, the younger mandarins feared offending their boss, while the lead mandarin feared being accused of not being able to appreciate fine wine, so they forced it down their throats. Not long after, one man rubbed his belly and cried out in pain. Soon, they all knelt to the ground, pain clear across their faces. The lead mandarin points at the poet. 'D-Did you poison us?'
The poet happily raises a jug to her mouth. How could she drink such swill, let alone write an ode to it?! Nobody had the leisure to care about her, though. The cries of pain are accompanied by a desperate need for the toilet, but they see that the door has been completely surrounded by the commoners, who give a hearty laugh. 'We were going to warn the poet that the last batch she brewed had gone off, and not to drink it. Who'd have thought it'd be you lot to suffer for it! Serves you right!'
The complaints grow, and there is no way out through the crowd, who were haranguing them for their hypocrisy. Those inside hold their bellies, resisting the urge to vomit while lifting their weapons as they try to threaten the people locking them in. For a moment, the cottage is as clamorous as the market. As for the poet? Nobody had noticed her moving up to the roof, drinking some jugs that none could stomach without a care. True, fine wine is fair to a drunkard, but would one ever refuse even a poor brew?
