Vino

Poseidon had been working for weeks on this project. It was a delicate matter, and something he had hidden from his packmates, largely for fear that it straight up would not work.

Every time anything bad had happened to him, or he was feeling lonely, or reminiscing, or... well really on every occasion, the once-god had wanted a beverage. He had named an entire beach after mojitos with loving irony. He remembered sitting on that beach, wishing he could order a cocktail in a fancy glass, the kind with the tiny pointless umbrellas and a pineapple wedge.

While walking through this grove some weeks ago, Poseidon had found a large number of wasps wandering about the bushes. Wondering if they had found some tasty hunk of dead thing, he followed. To his surprise, it was a deep-coloured grape that they were after. The fruit was so ripe that it was falling freely from the vine, and that had sparked an idea. Why not make some wine?

The problem was that he for the life of him could not remember how to make wine. This felt weird, considering his nephew Dionysus had shown him the technique to do so ages ago. All he could recall was that it contained grapes, and that said grapes needed to... sit?

This had prompted the strange behaviour of a wolf, gathering full bushels of grapes, and tossing them into a pit. This seemed correct? It was infuriating. He remembered that he knew, but he didn't remember what he was supposed to know. Was there some spell on his mind?

Fast forward to weeks later, when Poseidon was doing a diligent check on his pit of grapes to see if they had turned to wine. What he found was not wine but, as one might expect, rotten fruit that was so full of attacking wasps, flies, and various animal tracks that he just stood there in angry disbelief.

“RAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH” The shout was so loud, both bird and bee fled before the mighty Poseidon, who, enraged and defeated, slumped into despair on the ground.
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What the fuck was that awful scent?

Hothie didn't often stick her nose around horrid scents like these, but honestly she was just ridiculously curious. What the fuck could emit such a foul stench?

Then the cry echoed through the woods, coming from the place where the smell must be coming from... Birds fled the scene, scattering away from the sound which helped narrow down the location she had to investigate. The dragonness' pace quickened all the while her nose crinkled with every step she took closer to the foul odor.

Were there a way she could cover her nose to save herself from the smell, Hothieriel would have done it by now. The pathetic sight of a man slumped by some pit which she could only assume he was being poisoned by the miasma emitting from the hole. “The fuck is that smell?” She approached, not wanting to get too close in fear that some how a couple more feet would stain her coat in this odour.

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Sullenly, Poseidon rolled over onto his side to crane his neck toward the foul-mouthed newcomer. It was almost certainly no one from Saltwoods; most of those ladies were rather prim and proper, and generally wanted little to do with his useless shenanigans. Cowards.

He was right. From his sideways view he saw a red woman, a harsh creature with a face that could cut a heart in two with fierce, blue eyes. The rust was evident on her voice too, clearly repulsed by Poseidon's display. “It's uh... wine. The finest in the land.” The answer was serious and simultaneously sarcastic. He stretched a paw out to symbolize "all the land" in a very non-wolf gesture.

“Grab a glass,” he tipped his nose up, as though there were fine stemware in an invisible cabinet in the trees. Finally, he rolled himself to his feet. “I'll uncork it.”

The once-god often forgot that the vast majority of his fellow wolves on this world were not once humans from the mortal realm. Nor were they gods or nymphs. They were just wolves. Just animals. Beasts that should have lacked all thought and reason.

So he walked toward her a few steps, glancing again at her chiseled figure and trying to decide who she reminded him of.
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