A tale in which four young (cough, cough) heroes do battle with the dark and then sit around getting pleasently sloshed supping the water of life, the fruit of thier spoils and trading old war stories.

First. The List. I remember it well because half of it was mine :)

We started with the Dalmore (and finished it like the) a 12 year old highland malt; smooth but not too smooth. A good introduction to the evening.

This was followed by the Darbach (determined by following the methods of an ancient rite laid down moments before); another highlander (most of them were highlanders) that had a mellower finish to the Dalmore. Another 12 year old.

I think we then followed with the Dalwhinnie, a ripe heathery honied 15 year old, which always makes me think of highland ponies however it neither tastes, not looks, like a highland pony. Don't ask me how I know. I just know.

From thence we progressed to the Cask Strength and supped on a wee dram of the Glendullan. This 23 year grandpappy of all whiskey's is from the now closed Gelndullan distillery in Dufftown. It's strength (63.1%) means it simply must be consumed somewhat distilled unless one *wants* ones tongue to go numb. Once distilled it was one of the smokier of our collection. IT was at about this time that the "Whiskey Glow" began to grow.

From the Glendullan we turned to Munden's love offering, a beautifully packaged 23 year old of unknown parentage. A sublime sup from the heart shaped bottle. An honour to share such a special dram.

Having completed one cycle we moved from the Love Whiskey to the Edradour, which is hard to say, but even harder to say without trying to fake a schottish accent (for me at least). Another cask strenth brew (57.something %), beautifully packaged in it's own wooden coffin, as if a gentle warning that too much of this too fast may lead to the imbiber needing his own casket. A delicous, tender 10 year old brew, mellow once properly watered, but very warm and inviting.

After suitable appreciation we journeyed to the highland realm of Glenlivet, one of the truely classic single malts. As usual this delicious 12 year old deliver on it's promises and made a fine penultimate nectar. Smooth and sweet.

And so our journey ended in the highlands as it began (we had decended to the lowlands with the spreysiders {the Dalmore and the Edradour if I recall correctly and there is a good chance that I don't) and the Glendullan {I believe Dufftown is a lowland town, but could be very wrong)) with the last of my 18 year old Glenmorangie. Another classic with a reputation to uphold, that was well upheld as it rounded out our veyr lush evening leaving us all with a gentle, peaceful whiskey glow on.

The evening's journey was fueled with Scilian Horn (a kind of bread I have only seen in Upper Hutt - what to make of that I have no idea) and vast qantities of Dukkah. You might thing these accompaniments would not play well with the largely highland whiskies we had on offer, however you would be wrong. The armoatic spiciness of the Dukkah complimented the lush, intesnly subtle flavours of the Whiskies well.

Along the way we pondered the furture, but, as many will understand, when old roleplayers get togeather it is inevitbale that the war stories will soon emerge. Despite other distractions (a crazy board game Jarratt and I played and Frankenstienian episode of Black Books) we reminced fondly of roleplaying games past.

Wonderful Whsikey infused memories.

The band Stoat Zombie and their hit Stoat Flinging. How I had forgotten that and how sweet to remember.

Stories from the west with dime stories from "Fistful of Dolleros".

Memories of Apocalypse and Fury.

Erudite deconstruction of games past.

Tales of New Jericho and the lands developed around it.

"Megaroleplayers do the dying, Pikers do the flying."

And so many, many more.

in the depths of the Whiskey glow I had an epiphany about roleplaying that went something like:

"I love roleplaying because I get to be so much more. I have been a hero, a villian, an angel, a demon, alive and dead."

Or at least it was somthing like that. Though more eloquent (Whiskey has a way of promoting eleoquence).

In roughly sick hours the journey was over. We had arrived at our destination, our happy home. Frank, King of the Night, poured himself down the hill to his Castle. Morgue and I valiant Knights that we are offered to stay and protect Castle Piwakawaka. It was the least we could do after such warm hospitality.

The following morning, after waking at 6 pleasently surprised that no Mangels were bouncing on me and then waking again at 10 we had coffee and sicilian horn pancakes with lemon and sugar genorously served by our Gracious host Sir Jarratt.

A wonderful evening was had.

In closing I would like to remember our last toast of the evening.

"Here's to next time lads"