Mead, Beer & Thunder

The sun beat down on the dusty meadow, while colorful tents flapped in the lazy breeze and merchants hawked their goods as if they were treasures.

By the tournament grounds and festival stage, a dense crowd had gathered, hanging on the booming voice of the announcer.

“Behold, good folk! From far and wide you have traveled, to witness this grand festivity! Gaze now upon the next contestants: from across mountains and through endless forests they have come! Their arrival, no mere chance, but an omen heralding a new age! Two companions, as different as day and night, yet bound together by fate!”

An awed murmur rippled through the crowd, children pushed forward, eyes shining with excitement.

The first man stepped out, gripping a staff firmly in his hand. 

A wide-brimmed crimson hat shadowed his face, with strands of brown hair spilling beneath it. 

A wine-red shirt, belted at the waist, and a dark blue mantle completed the picture.

“Behold him! The Magus in Crimson! The Knower, the Wanderer, the Man with Staff and Hat!”

The Magus flourished his staff for dramatic effect, when his companion followed: a dark tunic, pointed hood, a belt with a dagger, a pouch of coins, and above all, a mug with a straw, held like a sacred relic. 

His angular face carried a mischievous grin, and his green eyes sparkled with trouble.

“And at his side, the Shadow Companion! A warrior? A rogue? A drinking buddy? None can say, yet a man whose blade is as swift as his cup, and whose tongue cuts sharper than steel! Together they are no mere adventurers, they are legends!”

The announcer spread his arms as if summoning demigods.

“Now, give it up for Marcus the Magus, and Gustav the Guzzler!”

Silence.

No cheers.

Only a single, pitiful clap somewhere in the back, quickly dying.

The two men exchanged a look. 

Marcus tugged his hat down over his face, while Gus loudly slurped from his straw.

“Sorry pals, I gave it my all” the announcer muttered, ushering them offstage. “Maybe next time…”

“Dude,” Gus said with a crooked grin, “told you the outfits sucked.”

Marcus scoffed. “Bah! These people are spoiled by oversized plastic armor and 3D prints. No one appreciates honest craftsmanship anymore.”

Gus gave him a flat look. “…Our outfits are from Temu.”

Marcus straightened, pointing proudly at his staff. “I made this myself.”

“You found that stick in the woods and didn’t even sand it.”

Marcus cleared his throat, ignoring the remark. “Anyway, Gus, it’s time for a mead-beer.”

“Good call.” Gus swirled his mug. “I still need to wash down that butterbeer garbage. Pure sugar water, seven coins and barely any alcohol. If I didn’t have diabetes before, I sure do now. Biggest scam ever.”

The two laughed as they headed for the tavern, while behind them cheers erupted for the next cosplay group under a banner that read:

“Fantastical Fantasy Festival – Cosplay Contest.”

---

Hours later, music thundered from massive speakers across the fairgrounds.

Bagpipes clashed with electric guitars, the crowd pressed in tight, bodies swaying and shouting in the thick summer heat.

Marcus and Gus were stuck between a giant Viking with a drinking horn and an Elf who could barely stay upright.

The bagpipes wailed, the guitars roared.

They clinked their mugs together so hard that foam splashed across their clothes.

“Perfect start!” Gus bellowed.

“WHAT!?” Marcus shouted back, not catching a word.

Gus only laughed, wiping foam from his beard, nodding forward. 

An Elf girl in tight shorts bounced with the rhythm, oblivious to anything else.

The two men shared a look, their lips forming the same silent word:

“D-A-T-A-S-S.”

In that moment, nothing else mattered, not the costumes, not the off-key shouting, not the rivers of spilled mead-beer.

Only music, laughter, and friendship.

Freedom in chaos.

But above the lights, the sky was darkening. 

Banners whipped in the wind, dust swirled through the air and thunder rumbled.

Gus tilted his head back. “Looks like a storm.”

Marcus waved it off, adjusting his hat. “Bah. It’ll pass.”

Five minutes later the rain was pouring in sheets. 

Instruments vanished under tarps, speakers fizzled, and the crowd scattered in panic.

“It’ll pass, huh?” Gus yelled, soaked to the bone.

Marcus sighed, hat dripping. “Nothing we can do. To the campgrounds!”

The festival grounds turned to mud.

Sheets of rain slashed across the campsite, where tents and campers glowed like little fortresses, warm and dry inside.

Everywhere, except at their spot.

Marcus and Gus stood ankle-deep in puddles, staring at a pile of unassembled tent parts.

“All the good spots are gone,” Marcus groaned, clutching a half-flying tarp.

“…Which is why we should’ve set it up earlier,” Gus grumbled. “Come on. We’re sleeping in my car.”

“Your car? The old Golf?”

“Yep. She can handle anything.”

Minutes later they huddled inside the beat-up VW Golf, the air thick with the smell of wet seats, old beer, and cheap vanilla air freshener. 

Rain hammered the roof, the wind rocked the car like a toy.

“Cozy,” Marcus muttered, shoving his soaked hat aside.

“Be grateful the seats fold down.” Gus pulled a ragged blanket over himself. “Sleep it off. It’ll blow over.”

But it didn’t blow over.

The storm grew worse, lightning split the sky, thunder boomed.

The Golf rattled violently, windows shook, rain battered like stones.

“If this keeps up,” Marcus mumbled, “we’ll take off.”

“Better than drowning in the mud,” came Gus’s muffled reply.

Another blinding flash, white light flooded the car, every detail frozen like a snapshot. 

The boom followed instantly. 

The Golf shuddered, lifted as if the earth itself had bucked.

Then silence.

No rain, no thunder. 

Only Marcus’s ragged breathing. 

Lights flickered across the dashboard, then dimmed. 

His eyelids grew heavy. 

The world wavered, blurred, and went dark.

---

A bird chirped.

Marcus’s eyes snapped open, head pounding with the mother of all hangovers. 

He groaned, rubbed his temples.

Still in the Golf, hat crooked, mouth dry.

But something was wrong.

The car was tilted in tall grass instead of mud.

No parking rows, no gravel lot, just endless green, and beyond it, trees he had never seen before.

“Ugh… what a night…”

He shoved the door open, stumbling into the sunlight.

Behind him, rustling. 

Small shadows darting around the Golf, too quick for his bleary gaze. 

He didn’t notice, instead, he patted his pockets, frowning.

“Where’s my vape…”

He wandered a few steps, checked again. Nothing. With a groan he turned back toward the car.

On the hood sat a small, grinning creature with pointed ears. It held the vape out to him like an offering.

Marcus took it without looking up. “Thanks, Gus. You look like shit.”

The creature cackled, guttural and strange. 

For a brief moment, Marcus squinted at it, eyes narrowed.

Then he shrugged, turned toward the trees, unzipped, and took a leak.

He lit the vape, dragged deep, and let the smoke fill his lungs.

Slowly, clarity returned.

And with it, realization.

No festival. No parking lot. Only forest. And no Gus.

He spun around.

Dozens of the creatures were crawling over the Golf, gnawing at the mirror, chewing the wipers, scratching at the tires. 

Grinning, hissing, their eyes glowing with mischief.

Marcus inhaled sharply, coughed, dropped the vape into the grass.

“What… the… FUCK!?”

The creatures screeched with laughter, closing in.