The Glass of Buttered Spirits sits on the bar like a captured sunset in glass—a stout tumbler holding a living pool of pale honey, the surface crowned with a thin, gleaming butter foam that threads slowly down the sides when you tip it just so. The liquid glows, not with fire, but with a soft candled warmth that seems to breathe, a pulse you can feel through the rim. Tiny bubbles drift upward, each one catching a glimmer of the room’s lanterns and turning it into a memory you almost can taste: nutmeg, dried citrus, and something faintly salted from the sea. Lore speaks of it: a recipe whispered through guild kitchens and caravan tents, crafted by dairy artisans who believed spirits of milk lingered in churned cream until the moment a dish was shared with a weary traveler. Some say the glass was named for its butter-rich shine that softens even the coldest heart, a charm to soften grief and bind strangers into a circle of warmth. As I lean closer to the counter, the vendor tells me the story with the voice of someone who has seen the road eat more than its share of travellers. The Buttered Spirits is not just a pretty drink; it is a bridge between moments. In the world, it appears in the hands of couriers crossing damp markets at dawn, in kitchens where guild cooks simmer pots while performers string tunes above the clatter of barrels. When a person drinks deeply, they feel a gentle unburdening—an easing of a stubborn ache, a momentary steadiness that lets them navigate a winding street or a tense exchange with a wary contact. Some folks swear it sharpens the sense of scent and sound, as if the room’s stories grew a little louder and easier to hear. Others barter it for memory, gifting it to a friend about to face a difficult choice, hoping the warmth will steady a decision. Market talk in the harbor district moves with tide and rumor, and that rumor has a price tag. Saddlebag Exchange is where even the most modest coin changes hands for a bottle or two, depending on the hour and the wealth of the buyer. On good days, a single glass fetches enough to tide a caravan for a stretch, on lean days it might go for a handful of copper and a song. The traders love the item because it travels well, its glow not easily extinguished by rain or frost, and because its name—Buttered Spirits—bears a promise of stories shared around a worn table. In the end, the Glass of Buttered Spirits is less a drink than a story you carry. It is hospitality poured into glass, a reminder that even in hard places, warmth can be traded and shared, and sometimes a simple sip can steer a conversation toward a kinder road. The glass sits back on the bar, its glow a quiet invitation to keep walking, to listen for the next whispered trade along the road.