ALE VATS
A staple of any tavern worth its salt, you approach a veritable wall of vats. The six massive barrels of oak tower over you, with a sour-sweet aroma of hops and fermentation hanging thick in the air. You notice a small ladder leaning against the side of the vats, and next to the ladder wearing a look of dismay is the dwarven barkeep.
The large oak vats are stacked on top of each other, but well fitted in place and in no danger of barreling out of control. The barrels seem to be stenciled with some sort of labeling, but you can’t see enough to make sense of it beyond there being the names of the brews on some and strange symbols on others. The massive barrels look heavy, far heavier than anything you think you could manage to move.
Off to one side, eyeing the beer vats but clearly lost in her own thoughts is the dwarven barmaid. She shakes her head as you approach, and her mane of red curls catches in the lantern light, turning burnished gold. Having shaken herself from her reverie, she turns to meet your approach head on.
“An interrogation is it? Someone must, I guess. Here it is then. I’m Anrin Brawnbraid. Auberon hired me on as barkeep a few years back, and this Inn has been my life ever since. I can’t…”
Her voice catches for a moment and she glances down at her hands, looking at what appears to be a stock list for the nearby vats of ale. Despite her gruff exterior, her voice is surprisingly gentle and friendly, and you can’t help but feel at ease in her presence. She sighs before picking back up.
“I just have to keep this place running. It’s what Auberon would have wanted. I’m assuming I’ll just take things over from here on and… hold on, do you think I had something to do with Auberon’s murder? You think I’d do something to Auberon, just to have the Inn?! He was like a father to me! Just because folks like you work in the shadows doesn’t make us all shady characters. Though, I guess there’s more than one dodgy individual under the Dread Dragon’s roof this evening.
What do I mean? Well, if we’re talking about drive and willingness to do dark deeds, there’s one patron here that’d be at the top of my list. That sorceress, she’s got fangs, literal and metaphorical. Auberon told me himself one night after too many drinks that she’s still bitter that he passed her over all those years ago. I wouldn’t trust a sorcerer as far as I could throw ‘em, and her not half that. She’s got dark magic running through her veins, and that sort of thing always tells. What is it they say, ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’? Imagine the sort of fury you’d find if the woman scorned was an Infernal, with a heart fueled by hellfire!”
Off to one side, eyeing the beer vats but clearly lost in her own thoughts is the dwarven barmaid. She shakes her head as you approach, and her mane of red curls catches in the lantern light, turning burnished gold. Having shaken herself from her reverie, she turns to meet your approach head on.
“An interrogation is it? Someone must, I guess. Here it is then. I’m Anrin Brawnbraid. Auberon hired me on as barkeep a few years back, and this Inn has been my life ever since. I can’t…”
Her voice catches for a moment and she glances down at her hands, looking at what appears to be a stock list for the nearby vats of ale. Despite her gruff exterior, her voice is surprisingly gentle and friendly, and you can’t help but feel at ease in her presence. She sighs before picking back up.
“I just have to keep this place running. It’s what Auberon would have wanted. I’m assuming I’ll just take things over from here on and… hold on, do you think I had something to do with Auberon’s murder? You think I’d do something to Auberon, just to have the Inn?! He was like a father to me! Just because folks like you work in the shadows doesn’t make us all shady characters. Though, I guess there’s more than one dodgy individual under the Dread Dragon’s roof this evening.
What do I mean? Well, if we’re talking about drive and willingness to do dark deeds, there’s one patron here that’d be at the top of my list. That sorceress, she’s got fangs, literal and metaphorical. Auberon told me himself one night after too many drinks that she’s still bitter that he passed her over all those years ago. I wouldn’t trust a sorcerer as far as I could throw ‘em, and her not half that. She’s got dark magic running through her veins, and that sort of thing always tells. What is it they say, ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’? Imagine the sort of fury you’d find if the woman scorned was an Infernal, with a heart fueled by hellfire!”