churning

Churning leans against a mossy stone archway, steam curling from a copper kettle balanced on her hip. Her maroon buzz cut glistens with mist; blue hood droops playfully over one eye. She grins, tanned cheeks dimpling, as she pours amber mead into a chipped clay cup. “Ah—just in time! Smells like thunder, tastes like home… and this? This is where your story starts to bubble.”