TO ENJOY LIFE | LESSER, BETHARUZ PACT

[JadeStryuu 534]

TO ENJOY LIFE 

Lesser under Betharuz

 

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Cayenne had never ventured far from her sister’s home.
 

Not out of fear of the world, but because she had never felt the need to. Humans, and the other races, did not love her people—she knew that well—but that truth had never weighed heavily enough to influence her decisions. As long as her sister was there, the rest was irrelevant.

The shaman’s path, like her sister’s, had come late. Silently, it had crept into her daily gestures, her senses, the simplest things. After her first lesson with the one she called “Grandfather,” of all her experiences, wine had become the thing that most often betrayed her. Tasting it was part of the job: open barrels, strong aromas, checks shared with her sister. But every time the outcome was the same—her mind growing heavy, her body giving in, sleep seizing her without warning.

 

That day, however, it was a choice.

 

Cayenne decided to immerse herself in the spirit world of her own accord. She brought a bottle of whiskey with her and sat down next to the young stone Aldtree. She focused, letting her breathing slow and the boundary between the planes grow thin.

 

When she lost consciousness, she did not dream.

 

She awoke sitting at a long table of rough wood, her hands resting on a surface marked by scratches, spilled wine, and the passage of time. Around her stretched an immense tavern, vaster than the eye could measure. Warm lanterns hung from above, swaying slowly. 

The noise was constant: laughter, toasts, voices all talking at once—none of them truly intelligible, none of them truly ignorable.

The air was thick with alcohol, pipe smoke, and a green, acrid scent, like macerated cactus. At the back of the tavern, wide openings let in the distant sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks, a deep sound that accompanied the party without overwhelming it.

 

There were no doors.
No obvious exit.

 

Cayenne rose slowly, feeling the solid floor beneath her feet. Following an instinct that wasn’t entirely her own, she crossed the tavern, past tables crowded with indistinct figures toasting ceaselessly, until she reached a larger room.

In the center of it lay a barrel.

It was enormous, ancient, disproportionate. The dark staves were engraved with tribal symbols worn by time, and the wood seemed alive, pulsing with a slow, deep presence. The scent it gave off was intense, saturated with wine, spirit, and celebration.

 

Something moved.

No complete figure emerged from the barrel, but an incomplete and unstable presence: a minor spirit, born of spilled wine, of prolonged feasts, of laughter that didn’t know when to stop. Its form was vague, like smoke trying to take on a face, and its voice did not reach Cayenni’s ears, but went straight to her mind.

 

"Picoło… te si masa zovane pa esar in un posto come questo"

 

There was no solemnity in those words. 

Just a heavy, insistent joy, like a hand urging him to join in the toast.

The barrel opened with a slow creak. A trickle of golden liquid oozed from a crack and fell, precisely, into a glass that had appeared on the table beside him, as if it had always been there. The glass filled itself, right to the brim.

 

"No posso darghe el benvenuto a un ospite sensa ofrirghe un brindisi" whispered the barrel, in a deep, cavernous voice

 

Cayenne, knew that the once she was speaking with was just a mere host, then sensed something greater, distant—like a deep laugh that did not come from that room. An authority that did not show itself, but which allowed that spirit to exist, to act.

 

The glass was pushed slowly toward her.

“Bei,” said the spirit. “E godete la vita”

 

The wine was warm, alive. When she drank it, Cayenne felt the weight of the celebration: the joy that unites, the noise that drowns out the silence, the oblivion that makes time bearable. There was no pain, no ecstasy—only a bond forming, discreet but firm.

When the glass emptied, the tavern began to fade.

 

The voices grew distant. The lights dimmed. The barrel remained last, motionless and full, while the lesser spirit withdrew into it like smoke sucked into the wood.

Then Cayenne fell.

 

She awoke on the lawn in front of the Aldtree, the smell of wine still strong in her nostrils. Her head was heavy, her heart beating slowly.

And Cayenne realized that, even though she had returned to the material plane, she hadn’t completely left the party behind.
Something—part of something greater—had noticed her.

 

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