"Waaz dis liquid? Drank nuttin' like dis befo'!" The commoner hap-hazardly placed a bottle, crafted from hollowed bamboo base wrapped with a leather piece with a cap on the counter top as a hand sniped the bottle and capped a cork firmly and hung it near the hilts of his blades.

"A mixture of rice... Allegro... A special formulae fermented over 4 days..." The red slit-eyed monater hunter whipped his onyx hair behind him. "Formulae's a secret. Witcher's secret." The same commoner pressed on.

"Come on master witcha! Tell us how wuz de secrit..." An expression of annoyance followed the witcher as he held his cheekbones, almost as though he felt the need to cover the straight scar across the lower part of his lale face and laid the same hand back on the table.

"On one condition." He specified, piercing the drunken man's eyes as he nodded.

"Wuts it?" He confidently asked.

"If I tell you the formulae, [i]I'll have to kill you[/i]." Despite such an aggressive revelation; the drunk seemed to be incapacitated enough that it may have missed what he'd say. He stood from his seat and made his exit from the tavern; the man followed.

"Witcha... Wait... Ferghusss..." Then, screaming. Ferghus perked his face up as his ears acutely detected the soundwaves of a feminine voice that came from the Southeast. He adjusted his swords by his waist and pushed the man back into the tavern. 

"Stay inside. You're too drunk. Bound to make trouble." He shut the door and made haste to the source of the voice.