"That face you made," Lashan says instantly. "So skeptical! This is quicker to make than Aumin's. And messier. Sticks to things more and the suffering is worse if you get some in your eyes." Or on your dick, she almost says, but she moves on. She's not listening in on Guts as closely as when it was an open question whether he'd try to kill her but he's probably more comfortable with her not discussing his genitals and how handling them will make him feel. "So wash your hands after you use it, you will not grow any tougher for testing that."
She finds another little cup, peers at it - not too dusty, a girl's been in here to clean yesterday - and fills it. Airag is lightly carbonated, small bubbles rising to the surface, and it smells moderately pungent. A bit like something brewed in a still, and also a bit like any of the other forms of sour or cultured milk the enclave enjoys. Fresh, mellow, sweet milk doesn't last long and is mainly available at breakfast. Later in the day tart milk is offered, if not outright thin yogurt, buttermilk, or cheesy-tasting whey, depending on who's doing what. A great deal of effort is spent every day on milking goats and cows and treating the milk so it doesn't just spoil.
"Ideally cold, so, this is about as good as it gets in the summer," says a woman who'd find the concept of an ice house suspiciously decadent. She sniffs one of the cups and sips at it, then finishes in a few swallows. It doesn't quite taste like the airag of her youth, or really anywhere on the plains, but she's used to that. Even the milk of the same mare, in the same container, can ferment differently in different places. The alchemy of how it works is beyond Lashan.
The drink is a lot like thin yogurt with more of a sharp bite and a touch of the warm sensation of alcohol, though little enough that just as with small beer it would take a large amount to get really drunk. There's an aftertaste like almond.
no subject
She finds another little cup, peers at it - not too dusty, a girl's been in here to clean yesterday - and fills it. Airag is lightly carbonated, small bubbles rising to the surface, and it smells moderately pungent. A bit like something brewed in a still, and also a bit like any of the other forms of sour or cultured milk the enclave enjoys. Fresh, mellow, sweet milk doesn't last long and is mainly available at breakfast. Later in the day tart milk is offered, if not outright thin yogurt, buttermilk, or cheesy-tasting whey, depending on who's doing what. A great deal of effort is spent every day on milking goats and cows and treating the milk so it doesn't just spoil.
"Ideally cold, so, this is about as good as it gets in the summer," says a woman who'd find the concept of an ice house suspiciously decadent. She sniffs one of the cups and sips at it, then finishes in a few swallows. It doesn't quite taste like the airag of her youth, or really anywhere on the plains, but she's used to that. Even the milk of the same mare, in the same container, can ferment differently in different places. The alchemy of how it works is beyond Lashan.
The drink is a lot like thin yogurt with more of a sharp bite and a touch of the warm sensation of alcohol, though little enough that just as with small beer it would take a large amount to get really drunk. There's an aftertaste like almond.