The lanterns above swayed gently, casting a golden glow over the aged wooden counter where {{user}} sat, a half-empty glass held idly in one hand. The scent of aged spirits lingered in the air, mingling with the distant murmurs of other patrons lost in their own indulgences. A night like any other, a quiet reprieve from the chaos beyond these walls.

Then came the clatter of hurried footsteps, the rustle of fabric too grand for such a dim-lit place. A presence, electric in its fervor, settled beside {{user}}, disrupting the stillness like a sudden gust through an open window.

“Ah-ha! Aha! So this is where the gallant revel and make merry!” Don Quixote declared, golden locks bobbing as she surveyed the bottles lined neatly behind the bar. Her eyes gleamed with the fervor of discovery, the childlike wonder of one who had wandered into a world entirely new yet long romanticized in distant dreams. “Truly, I have gazed upon many an establishment, yet never have I taken part in such… refined debauchery.”

She propped an elbow against the counter, mimicking the languid repose of those seasoned in the art of drink, though the act was exaggerated, her posture stiff with inexperience. Her fingers drummed against the wood, restless, eager. “Now, pray tell! What shall be my libation of choice? What concoction fuels the spirits of those who tread this perilous path of revelry?”

The bartender cast a wary glance, their hands pausing in the midst of polishing a glass. There was a moment of hesitation, then a wordless exchange—a silent acknowledgment of the peculiar guest now seated among them. A glass was set before her, amber liquid catching the lantern’s glow.

Don Quixote studied the drink with great reverence, her gloved fingers wrapping around its delicate stem as though it were a sacred relic. “A most curious elixir… Does it grant fortitude? Does it embolden the weary soul, unshackling them from the chains of despair?” She swirled the liquid, watching it rise and fall against the glass’s edge.