Wine is a good thing and is of great help in enhancing feelings and mediating the atmosphere.
The thing is, don't drink too much.
The older dwarf has a very convenient magic tool, a wine flask. This wine pot is a silver flat pot that looks extremely delicate and gorgeous. It has delicate lines that are completely opposite to the dwarf aesthetics. If you study it carefully, you can find that it is not painted with paint, but with countless Inlaid with tiny gems. Anyone with a little bit of discernment can see that it is a beautiful work of art; those with more knowledge of art can also see that it has a significant elf style; as for those experts who study elf culture, After careful study, it can be judged that it is not the style of contemporary elves, but the style of the ancient elven kingdom.
In fact, it is not an ordinary wine bottle, but an extraordinary treasure.
Its name is "Endless Flagon".
The name is enough to explain the problem. Every time it consumes the magic power equivalent to casting a low-level spell, it can create some wine. If it is fine wine, it can be made about one kilogram; ordinary sweet wine or spirits, about three kilograms; foaming ale or ordinary bad wine, can be made up to five kilograms.
Mages who are familiar with enchantment spells and making magic props may know that there is a magic prop called "Endless Kettle". This endless hip flask is something similar to it, but the efficiency of producing wine is much slower than producing water. After all, the level of detail of the two things is completely incomparable.
The older dwarf was not a very powerful spell caster, but with his magic power, he was able to pour enough spirits into the jug, at least... enough for the entire exploration team.
In fact, more than enough.
If Hopps and a few other people who were either teetotal by nature or smart enough to pretend to be drunk after the first drink were still sober, perhaps the joint exploration team would have been sober on the first night when they arrived at the camp. Sleeping in the open while drunk, most of them will freeze to death.
Fortunately, there are still a few sober people after all.
Hopps, whose face was slightly red because he had drunk a little bit of wine, led a few non-drinkers and dragged the drunken guys into the tent one by one, threw them on the bed with thick hay underneath, and then used Cover with quilt. Although each person's words alone are not serious, there are hundreds of people in the entire joint exploration team, and now they are all drunk.
So, when the last drunk cat was dragged into the tent and covered with a quilt, everyone except Hopps was exhausted.
"Rest, rest! Everyone should have a good rest!" Hopps waved his hand and told everyone to rest. He came to the huge bonfire in the middle of the camp, stared at the eternal flames burning with magical power, and felt He sighed softly at the warmth coming from above.
"It was so noisy on the first day. I wonder what the rest of the day will be like?"
He was not the only one to lament this cold winter night.
About two thousand miles to the south, on the "border line" where the merchant faction and the aristocratic faction intertwined, there were people making similar sighs.
"It was so troublesome on the first day, how can it happen in the future!"
The person who made such a sigh was a middle-aged man with half gray hair. He was wearing a light leather armor that was easy to move around, and he was carrying a scimitar that was equally convenient. Both the leather armor and the scimitar were so dark that it was almost impossible to distinguish them in this dark cloudy night. The only thing that could be vaguely seen was the white hair on his head.
Near him, there were many people also wearing black leather armor and holding various blackened weapons. Even their heads were covered with black hoods, making them look like shadows that could move freely.
Eerie, terrifying, and full of the smell of death.
In fact, what they did was indeed bringing death.
At their feet, a patrol of nobles lay scattered on the ground. Each of them had more than one wound, and even the smallest and most superficial wound was enough to be fatal.
There is no doubt that these patrols are all dead. Many of them still had expressions of astonishment and surprise on their faces. It was obvious that they had been suddenly attacked and died before they even had time to react.
"Check again." After the middle-aged man sighed, he said in an emotionless tone, "Make sure there are no survivors."
So the men in black who seemed to be hiding in the shadows waved their weapons again, adding at least two wounds to each patrol's body that were enough to turn the living into the dead.
The middle-aged man looked at all this with satisfaction, then waved his hand and led the group of people into the night, and soon disappeared without a trace.
The next morning, the aristocratic officer who discovered that the soldiers from the night patrol had not yet returned took some cavalry and searched along the patrol route. They soon found the bodies that were frozen stiff and even the blood had coagulated.
He frowned and looked gloomy, looking at the corpses carefully, and then ordered them to be transported back.
He is a knight and comes from a baronial family. These are the soldiers he brought from his territory, his family's private soldiers. Many of them even grew up with him and are considered his hardcore team members. He brought these people here because he wanted to make achievements or make a fortune. But I never expected that so many people would die before getting any benefits.
At noon that day, after he arranged some things, he took a few soldiers and galloped towards the superior's station.
It was getting late when they arrived at a small town. That was the residence of a viscount. Like the young knight, this viscount brought his private soldiers all the way to the border to see if he could get any benefits. Because they have the same ideas, their relationship is not bad.
The knight introduced the attack on the patrols under his command. The viscount was surprised, and then began to worry - if an enemy that could kill six experienced patrols at once came to attack him, his defense force would be very high. It really may not be enough.
So he became nervous and used magic props to contact his superiors - the earl who controlled this territory.
The Earl was not surprised by the death of a few patrolmen. In his opinion, the dead people were really insignificant and they should have been attacked by monsters.
Well, he was attacked by a monster. This is a good explanation.
Although the knight repeatedly emphasized that the wounds on the patrols were definitely caused by weapons rather than minions of monsters, the earl had already made a conclusion.
Regardless of how those patrollers died, if he said they were attacked by monsters, they were attacked by monsters.
The angry knight had no choice but to drink a lot of wine with the equally helpless and frightened viscount, and became drunk.
They stayed drunk until the afternoon of the next day.
When the joint exploration team of the Merchant Faction and the Northwest Republic finally woke up from their hangovers and started working, the knight and viscount who were awakened from their drunkenness got a shocking news.
The count was attacked and wounded, one of his knights lost his life, and more than twenty soldiers were killed or wounded.