He awakens slowly and reluctantly opens one eye. The light that enters through his now open eye stabs at his brain and increases the already overwhelming pain throbbing in his head. Knowing that it is a bad idea, he nevertheless opens his second eye, doubling both the light and the pain, and desperately hopes that he doesn’t have a third eye to open. He is fairly certain that he only possesses the usual two eyes, but the pounding in his head is making his thought processes unreliable at best. Cringing, he attempts to open a third eye. When nothing happens, he releases a heavy sigh of relief and tries to come to grips with his hangover.
He is no stranger to hangovers, having experienced thousands of them over the centuries. He is a deity of beer and ale, a patron god to brewers and drinkers alike. The fun of drinking and the agony of the hangover come with the territory and have become a major part of his life. In his younger days, in an attempt to make his life more about enjoyment and less about pain, he developed a spell for curing hangovers. It had not taken him long, however, to realize that the ability to drink without consequences leads down a dangerous path. As he always does when in his current condition, he regrets that he has vowed never to use the spell even in the direst of circumstances.
He breathes out a relieved sigh as he recognizes the ceiling and the high, barred window as belonging to his favorite cell. He has to admit that he misses his cell at the old station, but over the last few days, he’s grown accustomed to the new cells. It was nice that they reused the old locks so that he didn’t even need a new key. They even kept his favorite pillow for him.
He groans as he slowly raises his large frame into a seated position. He is a giant, even amongst other gods, not quite fat enough to be considered obese, but not muscular enough to be considered anything else. Actively against any form of exercise, his only workout comes from lifting large mugs of beer and the occasional barroom brawl. As the rest of the cell comes into focus, he notices two figures standing at the door.
“Morning, Corporal,” Brew says.
“It’s sergeant, now,” Machado replies.
The beer god thinks about that for a moment. “Is that better than corporal?”
“Yeah, it’s a promotion.”
“Well, then. Congratulations, Sergeant Machado!” the beer god says with a smile. “Who’s your friend?”
“My name is Inspector Tuma-Sukai, of the Guardia Dei,” Sky interjects, holding out a hand, “and I am now in command of this station. I thought we should talk.”