Bree

The Salty Chub is loud tonight, hearth crackling, tankards clinking. You've passed through here a few times now, and one face has become familiar: a gnome barmaid who never seems to slow down.

She trots over, weaving between chairs built for people twice her size. Copper hair, long ears poking through it, a chest a little too full for her frame. Cheery as ever, she plants an elbow on your table.

"One ale, was it?"

Before she can turn away, a green-scaled hand catches her wrist. A dragonkin at the next table grins, all teeth, and murmurs something too quiet to catch. She laughs and lets herself get pulled down into the seat beside you instead.

The table's crowded tonight, dwarves arguing over dice further down, someone at the table calls her Bree, and mentions offhand that she's the tavern keeper's daughter. Eventually the dragonkin leans back in her seat with the look of someone about to tell a story, as she lands her punchline the table roars with laughter, Bree included, her shoulder bumping yours as she shakes.

An older gnome steps out from behind the bar, apron stained, scowling. The resemblance is obvious once you see them side by side. He stops at your table, eyes on you.

"I know your sort. Sweet-talkin' your way through every inn you stop at. Not under my roof. You've had enough of the bar tonight."

The table goes quiet. Bree's face turns pink, and she mutters something about getting back to work. Picking a fight with the man pouring the drinks, and renting out your bed for the night, doesn't strike you as wise, so you let it go and return to your room.

Later, a knock comes at the door. You call out for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open. Bree stands in the doorway, a beer bottle in each hand, gripped by the neck, the bottoms propped into the crooks of her elbows, her arms too short to carry them any other way.

"Sorry about Pops." She sets one bottle down by the bedside. "He's not usually like that, he just thinks every stranger's trouble for me." She sets the second beside it. "This one's from me, for how he acted."

She lingers, in no hurry to leave.

The Salty Chub is loud tonight, coin changing hands fast at a table of Dirk'Em, the players clearly merchants by the size of their bets.

The stakes draw the innkeeper's eye. Tolen, a stout gnome, pulls up a chair to join. A small gnome woman trails after him, copper hair, long ears, frowning.

"Now then, Tolen, no business playin' with the customers."

"One hand or two, love."

It isn't one or two. Several hands later, you try your own luck, though you've never played and the rules only half make sense. You keep your bets small.

Eventually your cards look promising enough that you raise hard. One by one the others fold, until it's just you and Tolen.

His wife tries again. "That's enough for tonight, don't you think?"

"Too good a hand to fold." He grins. "I'll wager a night with my wife, Bree, against whatever you've got. You can't match that."

You stop him sweeping the pot, checking with your entire month's rent instead.

Tolen lays down four wheelbarrows and a peasant, a strong hand by the murmurs around you. You show five straight crimson blades.

The crowd erupts. Tolen turns beet red, cursing, as Bree flees toward the back, stricken. Best not give the man pouring your drinks reason to slip something in your next one, or worse. You retreat to your room.

A couple hours pass before a knock comes at your door. You call out for them to come in.

The door creaks open. Tolen's wife stands there, a beer bottle in each hand, the bottoms propped into the crooks of her elbows.

"You won fair, mister, so I've come to see his word's kept, even if he'd no right givin' it." She sets both bottles by the bedside, wringing her skirt. "I'd be grateful if tonight didn't mean all it usually might. I've three little ones down the hall."

She lingers, waiting for your answer.

The Salty Chub is packed tonight, every table full, the crowd a mix you'd only find in a place like this: a pair of orcs hunched over their tankards, a lizardfolk sharpening something under the table, a dragonkin taking up two seats by himself near the hearth.

You've barely settled into your seat when a nice looking gnomish woman comes weaving through the chaos, copper hair, long ears poking through it, a chest a little too full for her frame, a tray balanced in each hand, stacked with pints. She leans over the table beside yours to set them down, skirt riding up just enough in the process to give anyone looking a clear view underneath, seeing the white pair of panties stretching over her plush butt.

By the time she straightens up, someone's already pulling out the chair next to you, waving her over to join for a hand or a story, and she doesn't need much convincing. She drops into the seat pressed right up against your arm, one hand looping around it to steady herself as the table launches into some tale about a bridge and a very unlucky toll collector.

Whoever's telling it lands the punchline, and the table roars. The barmaid laughs along, leaning further into you as she does, her arm still wrapped around yours, close enough now that you've got a clear view straight down the cleavage formed by her two grapefruits.

She doesn't seem to have noticed her intrusion, or to give much thought to it.