Upon arriving in a small village alongside the ocean, she knew she could never again utter her given name. Thus, she became Amanda, a moniker her old life could not conceivably track.

While the commoners often thought something was askew, she finally found refuge as a local barkeep. She discovered she could easily placate them with her knowledge of herbology. So long as they were named “mules” or “spritzers,” they were none the wiser of her former accusations of maniacal potions. As one would expect, she was known to imbibe her own creations to pass along the days.

Eventually, the townsfolk became wary of her elixirs on one particularly rowdy day. An unruly and dastardly patron suddenly broke into hives, and before slowly deteriorating into a mass of shivering flesh, did point (what was left of) a finger toward Amanda’s direction. Yes, she had poisoned him, but she could not sit idly by and condone such idiocy in her presence.

She was nearly out the door when she realized that the tavern crowd was in fact, not in dismay. But rather, a happy calm came over the room. The unruly patron had many foes and Amanda’s concoction did all a great favor. So the day went on, and then the next, without further incident.

Henceforth, should a seedy or unfavorable person darken the tavern’s doorstep, an unexpected libation may appear. Along with a smile on Amanda’s face while grabbing a mop.