Frozen Sick (2) BE7

Snow gently falls from the sky and wind bites your cheeks as you stand in the graveyard of Palebank Village, a fishing outpost of Uthodurn that is home to several hundred dwarves and elves. The sun is low in the sky, sinking behind the fresh grave of Urgon Wenth, an old dwarf who caught a curse or disease that turned him into an ice statue. The folk of the village have gathered to pay their final respects to Urgon’s frozen remains.

Earlier that afternoon....

All who travel to Palebank Village inevitably find their way to the Jolly Dwarf Inn.  Word of Arl Bortock's fish chowder and fried potatoes has spread far and wide, and you wouldn't dream of missing out on a chance to find out for yourself.  

At the edge of the snow-covered harbor stands a stout, timber-framed inn known throughout the village as The Jolly Dwarf. Its roof is heavy with fresh snow, and thick beams darkened by years of sea air support the low structure. A carved wooden sign hangs from iron chains over the door, showing a round-bellied dwarf laughing with a tankard raised high while a fish leaps beside him. The sign sways slowly in the winter wind, creaking softly.

Lantern light glows through frost-laced windows, casting warm gold onto the snow-packed street. Outside the entrance, several fishing sleds lean against a post, their ropes stiff with ice. The faint smell of smoked fish and woodfire drifts from the chimney’s steady plume of smoke.

Inside, warmth and noise greet anyone who steps through the door.

The common room is crowded with fishermen shaking snow from their coats and stamping their boots on the worn wooden floor. Thick nets hang from the rafters beside old oars, cracked buoys, and the skull of a massive sea creature mounted proudly over the hearth. The fire itself roars in a broad stone fireplace large enough to roast an entire seal, its heat filling the room with the comforting scent of burning pine.

Long wooden tables are packed with villagers drinking dark ale and bowls of steaming fish chowder. Dice clatter across one table while a group of sailors argue loudly about whose boat nearly tipped while breaking through harbor ice earlier that day.

Behind the bar stands the innkeeper—a once fiery red-bearded dwarf, now a dwarf with a rusty, gray streaked beard that would touch the ground were it not tucked into his wide belt behind a well work apron, with laugh lines deep enough to show he earned the inn’s name honestly. He pours drinks with quick practiced movements, occasionally booming out a laugh that cuts through the room like a drumbeat.

In a corner near the fire, standing atop a small barrel that serves as a stage, a female elf bard plays a lute. Her cloak of deep blue wool is dusted with melted snowflakes, and a thin silver circlet rests in her pale hair. Her music dances lightly through the tavern—bright and playful, with hints of sea shanties that the fishermen recognize.

A few patrons hum along between drinks. One old sailor taps the rhythm on the table with a pipe stem. Even the innkeeper occasionally glances her way with a grin when she slips a clever verse about dwarves and strong ale into the melody.

Outside, the harbor groans under shifting winter ice and the wind bites hard enough to freeze a man’s beard solid. But inside The Jolly Dwarf, the fire burns hot, the ale flows freely, and the elf’s music carries laughter through the long winter night.

***OoC:  Enter Cato.  Unless you have something else in mind @emjats, you could kick start it off on stage!  Where else would a bard want to be?  If you are just playing for room and board, no worries.  If you are trying to make coin, we will need to kick things off with a performance check!***