The halls of the manor in Frandyln feel emptier than ever, despite the presence of the adventuring party. Fip Goldscale’s usual charm and mischievous grin have vanished, replaced by a hollow stare and a slow shuffle in his step. Temperance’s absence weighs heavily on him, a constant ache that no spell or trinket can mend.   Each morning, Fip rises early—perhaps too early, considering how late he drinks himself into oblivion. He dresses mechanically and ventures into the lively streets of Frandyln, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within him. He purchases the same items every day: enough food to sustain himself and two gallons of ale. His interaction with merchants is curt, devoid of his usual wit or flair.   Once back at the manor, he retreats to his room, locking the door behind him. The first gallon of ale goes down quickly, each pint numbing the edges of his pain. By the tenth pint, his head begins to spin, his emotions bubbling dangerously close to the surface. With slurred words, he calls upon his magic, casting Healing Word to clear the fog just enough to continue his grim task. The second gallon follows, its bitter taste barely noticed as it slides down.   But Fip doesn’t stop there. From his Tankard of Plenty, he draws another nine pints, each one a deeper plunge into self-inflicted torment. By the twenty-fifth pint, his body is weary, his mind dulled, and his soul no closer to peace.   For seven days, this cycle repeats. Each night, he collapses into a restless sleep, the faint scent of ale still clinging to him. His dreams are haunted by memories of Temperance—her laughter, her strength, the way she stood by his side. Every morning, he wakes with the heavy realization that she is gone.   The other party members may notice the changes. Fip’s once playful tunes and wry remarks have been replaced by silence. His absence at meals is glaring. Even when he is seen in passing, his red-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance tell a story of sorrow he refuses to share.   It is unclear whether Fip is drinking to forget or drinking to remember. But for now, his grief consumes him, and all he can do is drown in it—one pint at a time.