You have reached the Point of No Drinks, as you always knew you would. A sign at the entrance to this cursed, dry land announces you may not carry alcohol into it, nor can any be found within. From here it will be a difficult road full of inhibitions and fine motor skills, but for the good of the kingdom you must press on.
Sylvantongue, the half-elf bard that who has travelled with your party (mostly against your wishes) for the better part of the last year, stops two meters shy of the sign and stares at it, mouth agape, in clear disbelief. After taking what seems like an eternity to absorb the concise and clearly stated information on the sign, he turns to you.
“I can’t go no furder,” he proclaims, his speech slurred, as always, from too much wine.
“The fuck are you talking about, Sylvantongue?” you ask, vexed by the drunkard to the point of anger. Ever since you found him wasted in a tavern, casting suggestion spells on the patrons to get them to buy him drinks, he’s been pulling stupid shit like this.
“Ish jus’ not a place I’cn go, man,” he says.
“You’ve known since you joined us that our quest to destroy the Sand Dragon and bring peace to the realm would bring us pas the Point of No Drinks and into the Dry Lands. What the hell do you mean you can’t go there?”
“I thought is was sum’ kinda wa’er ting. Not wit m’wine.”
“Look, you can deal without it for a few days. It’s not far to the dragons lair.”
“I can quit whenever I wanna, yeah. But I dun wanna.”
“You’re going to endanger all the land so that you can stay drunk?”
“I’s a riss I’m willna take.”
You suppose you’re partly to blame. Your dad warned you about picking up party members in bars.