((25 Firstfall, 35 Dragon; Mid-day; Open to anyone in Denerim))
Snowflakes had been falling in fitful flurries since the middle of the month, but true winter had been late coming to Ferelden. This morning, however, the skies had opened up, dropping a thick curtain of fat, white flakes that swirled in the air and were rapidly accumulating on the streets and rooftops.
It was time for a tradition that George had started more than thirty years ago. He’d had many, and while Bernie had instituted a few of her own in the ten years that she had owned the Dragon’s Flagon, she had kept a good many of the old ones, and none was more popular than Snow Day.
The first day that snow could be seen accumulating on the Flagon’s roof, food and drink were free to all the entire day. She’d thought George daft at first; he never offered free drinks on Satinalia or any of the other holidays that the other taverns did, but four or five days a year, sometimes on a whim, he did it on his own. Time had shown the canniness behind the choices. The Flagon never wanted for patrons, even when most of the other establishments were giving booze away. Some folk just didn’t like the drunken crowds that such generosity tended to encourage in taverns without good bouncers, and prices at the Flagon were reasonable on any night. A laborer could get a pint of decent beer for a copper, or a noble could get a glass of Vyrantium white, Blessed 93 for half a sovereign … and both of them would have to wait the same amount of time if the tables were full. It kept the snootier nobles away most of the time and was popular with the lower classes, many of whom showed up on the off chance that they might have the satisfaction of being seated before Bann So-and-so.
And the occasional days of free food and drink, while expensive, paid off well in the end. The high end beverages were not included in the list of complimentary offerings, and there were always those who, after a round or two of their usual fares for free, decided they had saved enough to splurge on the good stuff. New patrons found the place, irregular customers became regular ones, and the regulars became more loyal.
They’d been caught out once or twice when the snows arrived early and with no warning and had to scramble to make sure they had enough food, but the weather the last week had given them plenty of time to stock the pantry, and Trixie and her assistants had been busy in the kitchen since before dawn. Pies, cakes and pastries had cooled on every window sill in the kitchen, and morning fare of bacon, ham, eggs, porridge, toast and griddle cakes had given way to shepherd’s pie, lamb stew, fish and chips, roast beef and potatoes, herbed chicken. The savory smells filled the air, competing with the scents of mulled wine and cider kept simmering in kettles - by far the most popular beverages on Snow Day.
And coffee. The Antivan import had a small but fanatical group of devotees - herself among them - and Bernie kept a pot brewing night and day, paying a pretty penny to keep her stock topped off, particularly when winter descended and choked off shipments from the north. She sipped at a cup now, liberally laced with cream, sugar and Nevarran whiskey, as she tended bar, her watchful gaze shifting from table to table in a seemingly casual fashion. Most of them were full, their occupants eating, drinking and making merry at normal levels of revelry, but a trio of newcomers at a corner table had arrived about an hour earlier, started drinking without ordering any food, and were starting to get sloppy and loud. A glance toward Giovanni confirmed what she already knew: her bouncer had his eye on him from his station beside the bar.
It was easy to pick out the regular patrons from newcomers; even if she hadn’t known the faces of her regulars by heart, the way the new arrivals couldn’t stop staring at Gio, even if most of them were at least trying to be subtle about it, would have given them away. After a couple of visits, you got used to the sight of a dwarf nearly as broad as he was tall, clad in the most eye-searing Orlesian fashions imaginable, but the first glimpse tended to take folk aback. Today it was orange and blue checkered tights beneath a yellow satin doublet over a lime green tunic with blousy sleeves. It made him easy to spot, if nothing else.
She turned back to the door as the bell chimed to announce a new arrival. “Fred, Edgar, good to see you!” she greeted the two men as they shook the snow from their cloaks and lowered their hoods to reveal cheeks and noses reddened from the cold and smiles appearing as they breathed deep the aromas of the day’s offerings and called for spiced cider.
The bell rang again as Bernie bustled back to the kitchen to fill two mugs with the hot cider, and she glanced back to see a new face: an elf in shabby clothes and a threadbare cloak, looking around warily before scooting to one of the benches near the fire. One of the serving girls immediately started making her way in his direction. He’d have a hot drink and a hot meal in his belly soon, and assuming he didn’t slip out as soon as he’d eaten, she’d try to see to it that he left with a warmer cloak on his back, courtesy of the stash that was maintained by donations by her regulars.
Snow Day was always a good day, and this one was looking to be no exception.
Snowflakes had been falling in fitful flurries since the middle of the month, but true winter had been late coming to Ferelden. This morning, however, the skies had opened up, dropping a thick curtain of fat, white flakes that swirled in the air and were rapidly accumulating on the streets and rooftops.
It was time for a tradition that George had started more than thirty years ago. He’d had many, and while Bernie had instituted a few of her own in the ten years that she had owned the Dragon’s Flagon, she had kept a good many of the old ones, and none was more popular than Snow Day.
The first day that snow could be seen accumulating on the Flagon’s roof, food and drink were free to all the entire day. She’d thought George daft at first; he never offered free drinks on Satinalia or any of the other holidays that the other taverns did, but four or five days a year, sometimes on a whim, he did it on his own. Time had shown the canniness behind the choices. The Flagon never wanted for patrons, even when most of the other establishments were giving booze away. Some folk just didn’t like the drunken crowds that such generosity tended to encourage in taverns without good bouncers, and prices at the Flagon were reasonable on any night. A laborer could get a pint of decent beer for a copper, or a noble could get a glass of Vyrantium white, Blessed 93 for half a sovereign … and both of them would have to wait the same amount of time if the tables were full. It kept the snootier nobles away most of the time and was popular with the lower classes, many of whom showed up on the off chance that they might have the satisfaction of being seated before Bann So-and-so.
And the occasional days of free food and drink, while expensive, paid off well in the end. The high end beverages were not included in the list of complimentary offerings, and there were always those who, after a round or two of their usual fares for free, decided they had saved enough to splurge on the good stuff. New patrons found the place, irregular customers became regular ones, and the regulars became more loyal.
They’d been caught out once or twice when the snows arrived early and with no warning and had to scramble to make sure they had enough food, but the weather the last week had given them plenty of time to stock the pantry, and Trixie and her assistants had been busy in the kitchen since before dawn. Pies, cakes and pastries had cooled on every window sill in the kitchen, and morning fare of bacon, ham, eggs, porridge, toast and griddle cakes had given way to shepherd’s pie, lamb stew, fish and chips, roast beef and potatoes, herbed chicken. The savory smells filled the air, competing with the scents of mulled wine and cider kept simmering in kettles - by far the most popular beverages on Snow Day.
And coffee. The Antivan import had a small but fanatical group of devotees - herself among them - and Bernie kept a pot brewing night and day, paying a pretty penny to keep her stock topped off, particularly when winter descended and choked off shipments from the north. She sipped at a cup now, liberally laced with cream, sugar and Nevarran whiskey, as she tended bar, her watchful gaze shifting from table to table in a seemingly casual fashion. Most of them were full, their occupants eating, drinking and making merry at normal levels of revelry, but a trio of newcomers at a corner table had arrived about an hour earlier, started drinking without ordering any food, and were starting to get sloppy and loud. A glance toward Giovanni confirmed what she already knew: her bouncer had his eye on him from his station beside the bar.
It was easy to pick out the regular patrons from newcomers; even if she hadn’t known the faces of her regulars by heart, the way the new arrivals couldn’t stop staring at Gio, even if most of them were at least trying to be subtle about it, would have given them away. After a couple of visits, you got used to the sight of a dwarf nearly as broad as he was tall, clad in the most eye-searing Orlesian fashions imaginable, but the first glimpse tended to take folk aback. Today it was orange and blue checkered tights beneath a yellow satin doublet over a lime green tunic with blousy sleeves. It made him easy to spot, if nothing else.
She turned back to the door as the bell chimed to announce a new arrival. “Fred, Edgar, good to see you!” she greeted the two men as they shook the snow from their cloaks and lowered their hoods to reveal cheeks and noses reddened from the cold and smiles appearing as they breathed deep the aromas of the day’s offerings and called for spiced cider.
The bell rang again as Bernie bustled back to the kitchen to fill two mugs with the hot cider, and she glanced back to see a new face: an elf in shabby clothes and a threadbare cloak, looking around warily before scooting to one of the benches near the fire. One of the serving girls immediately started making her way in his direction. He’d have a hot drink and a hot meal in his belly soon, and assuming he didn’t slip out as soon as he’d eaten, she’d try to see to it that he left with a warmer cloak on his back, courtesy of the stash that was maintained by donations by her regulars.
Snow Day was always a good day, and this one was looking to be no exception.
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