Gunfire: The Barrel

The lantern was burning low, putting an orange-gold cast on the cabin. Ryle was pouring us a drink of a very fine twenty-year Presagian whiskey. It was his one indulgence; many a night did we spend far from civilisation sipping on the finest drinks available.

He handed me the tumbler, the crystal beautifully cross-etched in flowing patterns. The lantern's light set the liquid afire with a golden glow while deep aromas spilled gently forth - sweet and smoky scents, full of layered complexity.

I must admit that I favour Presagian whiskeys. Martese examples are very fine, but they lack the subtle richness of those from our earnest opponents in battle. This one was no exception, the single-cask burn at once smoky and dark, but with a solid undertone full of a dignified sweetness.

Ryle breathed in deep beside me. I thought he was enjoying the drink, but it was an anticipatory breath. I looked at him expectantly.

"Is your sister the elder of the two of you?"

I gave him an amused smile.

"What do you think?"