Ladies, Gentlemen, and Fae-folk,

I am pleased to announce that the sixth of Myatt's stolen sketches, titled "Drunkard", has been successfully retrieved.

The challenged posed by this one was, similar to the last, straightforward. The apparition of a drunkard challenged any and all comes to a life-or-death drinking contest. One by one, adventurers sat across from this apparition and, one by one, were drunk not only under the table, but into the grave. Nevertheless, adventurers persevered, engaging the apparition in this contest over and over and over again, until he went from flushed to nigh-incomprehensible. And then, with a final satisfied clap of his hands, the apparition surrendered to Yilui and faded away into nothingness. In his place, only the sketch remained.

It seems strange at first glance that the magic that had previously manifested such malice and misery would produce something so whimsical as a drinking contest, albeit with dangerous stakes. Perhaps, then, it invites us to look deeper. To ask, perhaps, what drives someone to become a drunkard?

There are as many reasons to drink as there are blades of grass in a field. One drinks when celebrating. One drinks when socialising. One drinks to relieve stress. One drinks to remember. One drinks to forget. The reasons are myriad, but what one must remember is that alcohol, at its heart, is a poison. Imbibed in moderation, it can have pleasing effects. A loss of inhibition and worry, an abudance of confidence and cheer. It alters the mind, relaxes the body.

But alcohol also weakens one's fortitude. It erodes at one's discipline. It might make one fitful and angry, or another lethargic and sad. Perhaps what one carries into the glass impacts what effect it has on them. We are, when we drink, accepting into our bodies a poison. In sufficient quantities, alcohol will kill us. And so we accept it in moderation, but see all too often the way alcohol can make one lose control of oneself, one's temper, one's tongue and fists. In excess, we may harm others. And in excess, we always harm ourselves.

The story Myatt told us of the inspiration behind this sketch was a short and sad one. She spoke of a drunkard who frequented the villages. A man who, infamous for his drinking, traveled from place to place, and found none especially welcoming. But he would find drink, and in the drink he would find companions, and so he persisted in his habit. He said he had friends everywhere; nothing unites like being drunk, after all, he said. But he outlived every one of those so-called friends. One by one, they perished before him. Illness. Accidents. Age. What was once a sweetness soured. The man continued to drink, but not because he took joy in it, but as a means to drown the ache of loneliness and grief. And in the end, no one was at the man's side when he quietly perished. No one can even say for sure when he died. He simply stopped coming around.

It is a tragic fate to be lonely. It is more sorrowful still to die alone.

Some may see this as a cautionary tale. Some may see this as a joke to scorn. I say, take what lesson from this as you may. But when next you sit down to have a drink, pour one out for a drunkard who had nothing else, no one else, in the end.

Once again, I thank you all for your aid and assistance. I continue to look forward to standing beside you as we face what yet lies before us.

In Song,
Taelle Starling

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Miraman, in the year 959 AF.