Inside the Sailor's Delight

As you open the door to the Sailor’s Delight, you are first greeted by the strong smell of burning pipe weed. There is a thick cloud of smoke hanging over the main room of the tavern. This is nothing new, though. The tavern is always smoky from the sailors and patrons smoking a pipe of various grasses and weeds as they relax in the common room. The combined scent, while strong, is pleasant enough.

A hard-looking serving girl breezes by you with a platter of food and drinks in one hand, taking no notice of you. It looks like the smoke is the only greeting you’re going to get. You look over the noisy common room, trying to find a place to sit down. There are only a few seats available, most being a single chair at an occupied table. You spot an available stretch of bench along one wall, and make your way over to it. You’re relieved to find a spot with your back against the wall and a view of the door, in case the city watch has somehow managed to follow you the whole way here. You’d prefer to see them when they step in even if you don’t look like the man they’re chasing.

You sit down heavily on the bench, placing your backpack in the seat across the small table from you. You take a moment to survey the common room.

The tavern itself is very old, possibly one of the oldest along the edge of the harbor. Many of the floorboards lack their original lacquer, causing loud woody shrieks from the wood when someone moves their chair over them, while others give groans or squeaks when treaded upon.

In the corner near the soot-stained hearth, a young minstrel is strumming a song that is unheard by most of the room, due to all the noise generated by eating and talking and the telling of bawdy jokes. The minstrel plays anyway, unconcerned. He’ll be paid his fare by the tavern owner for providing the music for the room whether anyone listens to enjoy it or not. You’ll need to remember to drop a few coins down for him before you leave. In the area around Antillia, it is considered good luck to tip a minstrel in a tavern or brothel; no doubt a custom created and cultivated by the traveling minstrels themselves long ago. Nonetheless, it couldn’t hurt after the near-miss you had with the city watch earlier.

The entire crowd is men; this place is much too dangerous for a woman, unless she has a score of bodyguards to keep her safe from the lecherous eyes and hands of her fellow patrons. Otherwise, all the women here are either serving food and drink or up in the rooms above the bar, safely behind lock and key. The keys to their rooms are behind the bar counter with the tavern owner, where if you’re willing to spend the coin (and tonight you are), you can purchase some time with one of the ladies. How much time you’re given and what you can do with them are determined by what you work out with the tavern owner.

The tavern owner himself is a large man, thick about the middle but not lacking for muscle. He sports a thick brown beard to make up for the lack of hair on this head. At the moment, you can’t recall his name. You know from previous visits that he won’t stand any trouble against the girls, and a large wicked mace is hidden behind the bar counter in the case of a “disrespectful” customer.

Above the bar is the menu for the evening, marked in chalk on a board in large letters. You see one of the choices tonight is lamb with cooked potatoes and mixed vegetables, which sounds fine to you. You hadn’t realized it until just now, but it’s been a long while since you’ve eaten, and you’re very hungry.

No sooner have you decided what you would like than a figure steps in front of your view of the board. You look up to see the serving woman that almost ran into you when you had first stepped in. She still stands with the plate of drinks and meals balanced on one hand, the other resting impatiently on her hip. You’ve learned her name is Brenda. She’s a fine waitress, if a bit short-tempered. But then you’d probably short tempered too if you spent all day with fingers pinching your ass and reaching for your breasts every time you bent over to serve a meal. She says nothing to you as you glance up at her, only staring at you with raised eyebrows, waiting for your order. The edges of her black hair are wet with perspiration; a sheen of sweat covers her forehead.

“Lamb and potatoes,” you say up to her, as you reach for your backpack to fish out your coin purse.

“Drink?” she prompts.

“Some ale, whatever goes best with it.” You know she will probably direct you to one of the more expensive options, but she’s still always right about what goes best with the meal.

“That’d be the Blackwood. That’d be eight copper ‘n three slivers total” she responds. The word “sliver” is a common term used to refer to the pressed wooden pennies that serve as the lowest form of currency in the region.

The Blackwood ale isn’t the most expensive that they have, but it’s not far off either. You decide that sounds fair. As you collect the coins, you decide that it would be best to get back some of your money, so as you take out a single copper, you perform a quick and silent casting on it to appear as a silver before it clears your backpack so she cannot see the change. You hand up the single coin to her.

She takes it without a response, drops it down into her cleavage, and carries on to another table.

Now with nothing to do but wait for your food, you idly look around the common room. Over to your left, Brenda is setting down the platter of food that she had been carrying to a group of patrons. The one closest to her reaches around her and pinches her ass as she does so. Brenda doesn’t react immediately, but as she is collecting their empty mugs on her way to leave, she hits the man in the back of the head with his empty mug, forcing his face down into his meal. Brenda is already away from the table by the time he looks up again, spitting curses and bits of food at her departing back. The other fellows at the table roar with laughter.

As you look around, you notice a patron walk up to the bar, speaking with the tavern owner. They exchange some words, with the man hooking a thumb toward the rooms upstairs. After another moment of talking, the man hands the owner a few coins, and receives a key with a tag hanging from the handle. After the man makes for the stairs, the bartender reaches under the bar, presumably to flip an hourglass.

As the owner—Jerund is his name, now you remember—stands, he is confronted by two men of the city watch. You curse yourself for not keeping a more attentive eye. They’ve walked across the entire common room and reached the bar, and you hadn’t spotted them until now. They talk with Jerund for a moment. Jerund surveys the room as they speak and he shakes his head dismissively. Satisfied, the guards leave the common room. If nothing else, at least now you know they are in the area at the moment. Usually the city watch leaves the policing of the docks areas to the local crime syndicates that own the docks and only set foot in the area in **** and only for good reason. You doubt that your run-in with them earlier would be cause enough to come here.

After the guards leave, you notice a man sitting at a table near the bar staring at you. He does so over the lip of his mug as he takes a drink, trying to be inconspicuous. All you can see over the lip of the mug is his limp dark hair and piercing eyes. He wears a beaten old cloak over dirty garments underneath. His two companions take no notice in you, though they look no more savory than this man.

Again you attempt the most intimidating look you can muster with your false face, trying at the same time to look unconcerned at his sudden interest in you, if possible. As you stare back at him, you notice that he’s not looking at you exactly, but rather at the area under your table. Irritated, you shift uncomfortably in your seat, sliding your feet under the bench and leaning forward in your seat.

Then you realize what has his attention. Despite your aching feet from your run through the streets before, you had forgotten to change the look of your shoes. You are still wearing the thin slipper-like shoes of a student at the Institute. Anyone who has seen a student of the Institute in their uniform robes and shoes would not be able to mistake their attire. You realize that the city guard must have been inquiring about you just now (apparently they’re going to make an issue out of this incident, even though the oaf wasn’t hurt), and from his table near the bar, this man overheard the conversation. The guards no doubt mentioned their quarry's footwear in their conversation with Jerund. And this man has ample reason to assume you’re at least somehow involved since you’re now wearing the shoes of the man they’re looking for.

Before you can decide what to do, your lamb and potatoes come clattering down on the table in front of you. Brenda has returned with your order. She takes a bit more care with your ale, making sure not to slosh it. She pulls your change out from a pocket and hands it to you. You return a pair of slivers to her hand before she walks off. “For the minstrel,” you state simply, hooking a thumb in his direction near the hearth.

She stares at you for a long moment, then nods. A moment later, she has vanished into the crowd again.

The minstrel catches your eye as you start on your food. He raises his cup in your direction and with a nod, takes a drink. You raise your mug in return and take a small swig of the Blackwood ale. The minstrel starts his next song as you appreciate Brenda’s fine choice in a drink.

You eat the lamb and potatoes at a steady pace, keeping a subtle eye on the man who had been staring at you a moment before. He speaks in low tones to the two other men at the table with him, one of which turns his head slightly to glance at you out of the corner of his eye. You can tell they’re formulating a plan to either mug you or turn you in to the city watch. Probably both, on second thought. But so long as you’re in the tavern, you won’t be harmed without them bringing the anger--and mace--of Jerund down on them.

Long after your food is gone and a serving girl (not Brenda this time) has taken your plate and utensils back to the kitchen, you sit at your table, slowly drinking the last of your ale. As hard as you can, you try to form a plan to get out of the tavern without these men following you and without having to step outside with these damnable slippers on. But you can’t risk magically changing their appearance with a spell here in the tavern. That would require that you cancel the current spell working on your appearance and casting a new one. And that would certainly get a lot more attention in the process. You could also try simply changing your shoes here in the common room, but again you’re afraid of even that quiet act drawing more attention to yourself. Anyone else that sights the shoes will then have the same interest in mugging you that these men have.

Finally, you decide to go get a room and visit with a girl. If nothing else, you can at least get your lay that you came here for. Maybe you’ll see some other option for escape once you’re up on the floor above and can see the whole common room. Or maybe the girl will have a window you can go through, who knows. You collect your backpack and walk toward the bar.

Jerund is pouring a drink from one of the casks as you approach. After a moment, the mug is filled to its brim and he turns, setting it down on the counter for one of the girls to pick up. He notices you standing there and regards you, placing his hands on the counter. “Can I help you, friend?” he asks. Jerund is a tough man running a run-down tavern in a bad part of the city, but that has never caused him to forget his hospitality.

You give him your biggest smile. “I was hoping you might be able to direct me where I might find my future wife,” you joke, doing your best to imitate a slight Dolfrani accent. You’ve decided that you’re going to have fun playing a character tonight while using this image.

That remark gets a laugh out of Jerund. “Well, you can’t take her with you tonight, but you came at a good moment. Of the five, there are three available girls right now: Arianne, Sarah, and Obara. And you have the gods’ own luck with you tonight; there’s no line for any of them. Maybe everyone is enjoying the bard’s plucking more than usual this evening.”

You have not had the opportunity to visit any of these girls before, so you don’t know what to expect with any of them. “Tell me about them, friend,” you reply, returning his friendly tone. “I need to know which one to choose if she’s going to go home with me one day.”

“Well,” Jerund ponders for a moment. “Arianne is a favorite. She’s got very pale skin, but has brilliantly red hair. Hair as bright as fire, my friend. The way it looks tossed over that pretty face is enough to drive a man mad. She says she’s the highborn daughter from some lesser lordly house in a nearby land, but I forget which. Must be here out of spite or safety from her father, I guess. But she has good breeding and the proper manners to match. Go visit her and she’ll make you feel the lord that she was once meant to marry.

“Sarah is another fair-skinned girl, very popular, with hair the color of bleached gold. She has a quiet, almost shy manner to her. She’ll remind you of the girl that you knew when you were young, but never had the chance to have. And with her smaller size and young features, she might just look how you remember her.

“And Obara is a bit of an exotic girl. She has dark skin, but not so dark as yours. Her hair is down to her waist, straight and dark, as black as a starless night out on the sea. She’s from somewhere far off in the east, but she speaks a language I don’t recognize, so I don’t know where. She’s learned a bit of our local tongue, but I think you’ll agree that you’ll understand her just fine once you two start getting acquainted.

“So, which of the lovely girls sounds like the one you’d like to spend your time with this evening, friend?”