Grace watched Alia spin a particularly depressed-looking farmer around the tavern floor, both of them stumbling over their own feet. The farmer's expression had upgraded from "dead inside" to "mildly confused," which, well, Grace figured she couldn't be too picky about progress here, so that had to count for something.
"She's got the right idea," Mara said, sliding a mug of something that might generously be called ale across the table. "Even if her execution is... questionable."
Grace squinted.
"I think she just stepped on his foot."
"Oh three times now. I've been counting."
The farmer winced but kept dancing. Or swaying. It was hard to tell the difference with Alia leading.
Grace took a sip of maybe-ale and immediately regretted it.
"What is this?"
"The bartender called it 'brew.' Yes, just brew. No other descriptors."
"It tastes like nothing."
"Very on brand for this place."
