"I'm tellin' you, mate, you're gonna love this place. The owner, this woman called Dima, she makes a stew like you've never tasted before, serves it up with bread that's got honey baked right in, so it's all sweet. They got real dwarven beer and ale, not that imitation shit that these northerners usually like, and fruitwines all the way from... What's it called? Vala Shala? Vena Shanu? The place where the trees grow all blue. Oh, and the barmaids! There's this one, right, she's got hips like nothing I ain't ever seen! I think she's from..."
Richard's mind was starting to wander. It was far too cold, and this town was far too bright, for him to follow Stanwick's yammering. The North had an unhealthy obsession with winter. It was a shit season, in Richard's opinion, and it was even worse here than it was where he'd grown up. Here, winter lasted nearly half the year, and there was no summer to speak of- just a few months where it just barely too warm to snow, so it rained every other day instead. And yet the northerners celebrated midwinter. It was the coldest, most miserable time of the year, and they threw a damned party!
He was following Stanwick through the streets of Þikbaum, which was a small town by his reckoning, yet it was still one of the largest settlements in the north, and everywhere they went, the streets were packed with people despite the knee-high snow and bitter cold. Here there were stalls where men and women poured boiling maple sap on snow to make taffy, which they passed out to laughing children and their parents. There there was a group of men making a towering figure out of snow- probably one of their heathen gods. Every building, be it house or shop or tavern, was covered in strands of tinsel and garlands of holly, and there were ornaments made of ice in the shape of stars and snowflakes over every window, glittering in the orange light of the sunset.
"So I say to her, I say 'You're a pretty young thing, but I got a wife back home, see? So I can't be frittering about with no northern ladies.' And she laughs and says 'Is that what you call it? Frittering about?' I say 'No ma'am, but there ain't no polite words for it in this northern tongue, or if there is I don't know 'em.' Then she laughs again and- hey, look! There it is, just around the corner there."
Richard followed Stanwick's pointing finger to a squat, wooden two-story building that abutted a street corner. Hanging by the door there was a wooden sign that bore a shaggy dog dancing furiously on its hind legs in fading paint. Someone had nailed a garland that had been bent roughly into the shape of a pointed hat to the dog's head.
There had to be at least a hundred people packed into the inn's common room, which took up the entire lower floor, but Richard and Stanwick managed to grab seats at a corner table near one of the shuttered windows from a couple who were leaving just as they arrived. It was warm in here, just a bit too much for comfort, even once they had removed their heavy fur coats, but the air was heavy with the scent of cooking meat, fish, fresh bread, and spice, and dense with laughter and the sound of dozens of different conversations going on at once.
There was a long bar along the far wall, and behind it there were two people- a middle-aged woman in a headscarf and a tall, thin young man, both of whom were busy pouring drinks while they conversed and laughed with the patrons. "That's Dima there, and her son," Stanwick said when he noticed Richard looking at them. "Looks like she ain't cooking tonight, but she told me it's her two daughters down there in the kitchen, and they're just as good as their mum."
Opposite the wall, near where the two of them were sitting, there were two staircases. One went down, and from this one every once in awhile a beautiful young woman would emerge, wearing a low-cut dress made of red wool and white fur and carrying platters of steaming stew, meat, and bread to a table. The other went up to a small corner balcony, where a man sat with a mug of beer at a small wooden table. He was wearing a suit of white mail, despite the heat, and talking with a dark-skinned woman with green eyes.
"Welcome to the Dancing Dog! Can I get you gentlemen anything to eat?" Richard jumped. He hadn't heard the barmaid approach their table over the din of the common room, and now that he saw her he found himself tongue-tied. She was very beautiful, with a pixie face, long blonde hair done up in a braid, and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose, but that's not why he was rendered wordless.
Most of the barmaids that he saw emerging from the kitchen and dashing about with food were wearing identical dresses which showed off their breasts and shoulders but left everything below that completely covered all the way down to the hems of their long, billowing skirts. Not this one. From the chest up her dress was the same as all the others, but below that she had made some modifications. The sides of it had slits cut in them all the way up to her waist, and her hips- her magnificent, extraordinary hips- were so wide that they flared out past the fabric, which tapered down to only a few inches wide at its lower hem, by her ankles. Underneath the dress she wore a pair of stockings that went up to the middle of her thick thighs, and they were so stretched by them that they were nearly sheer at the top.
"Hullo, Ferri!" said Stanwick.
"My lady!" cried Richard. He stood so sharply that he knocked his chair over, but he ignored it, dropping into a deep bow. "My companion and I are most definitely hungry, but first might I ask your name?"
"Goodness, Stanwick, you've brought me a charmer!" The barmaid laughed and put her hand on her hip, cocking it to the side in a practiced way. It was the sort of movement specifically designed to be barely noticeable, yet devastating to men at the same time. This woman was a huntress, of that Richard was certain, but she was about to discover that her prey had claws.
"Er... She's called Ferri, mate. I just said it. You gonna pick that up?"
Richard put his foot on the edge of the chair and kicked, flipping it upright without using his hands, then sat back down on it in one smooth motion. The barmaid's eyebrows went up, and he knew that he had impressed her. "Ferri it is then. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he crooned. He saw the corner of her lip twitch upward. "I'm afraid that this is the first time that I've visited your fine establishment, so I don't know which of your dishes would delight me the most. Please, just bring us what you think is best. If it tastes half as good as you look then I will count it as the greatest meal I have ever eaten!"
The barmaid was smiling openly now. Why, this was going to be easy! "We've got stew, bread, and mutton. I'll bring you a little of each. Something to wash it down?"
"Ale!" cried Stanwick. "Dwarven ale!"
"Your finest fruit wine," said Richard. "A distinguished drink for an exacting gentleman."
"Of course. Only the best for a gentleman," she said with a giggle. She turned to leave, and Richard had to fight very hard to keep himself from gaping. She didn't seem to be wearing anything under the dress aside from her stockings, and as she swayed her hips seductively with each step the back of the dress swung in time, revealing tantalizing glimpses of her very bare, plump, jiggling bottom.
As soon as she was out of earshot Richard immediately rounded on Stanwick. "Gods above, man, why didn't you tell me this... this divine creature worked here?"
"Mate, I was talking about her practically the whole walk here! Ain't my fault you never listen to me."
Richard waved his hand dismissively. "You were prattling on about the food, or somesuch nonsense. You can't expect me to pay attention to you all the time. Now listen, she knew you by name, so clearly you have something of a rapport with this fine young lady. Do you think I could have her in my bed by the night's end?"
"Well... Maybe, but-"
"Nevermind, don't answer that. Of course I can! You just watch me work, and don't say anything stupid in front of her. Pay attention and you might even learn a thing or two about courting women."
"Rich, I'm married..."
"So am I. That doesn't mean we can't have a little fun while we're away, does it?"
Stanwick's face went red. "I would never be unfaithful to my wife!"
"Well, of course you wouldn't."
"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"
"Think nothing of it, my henpecked friend. Just don't try anything with Ferri when you change your mind. She will be mine before we leave here tonight, I guarantee it."
"Gods, you're-"
"Here she comes! Shut up, just watch the master at work."
Ferri returned balancing a tray with their drinks on her ridiculously voluptuous hip. "Here we are! Dwarven ale for Stanwick, and Shalian wine for the gentleman."
The wine was more blue than purple, and when Richard took a sip he discovered that it was so overwhelmingly sweet that he had to fight to keep a straight face. "Ah, excellent! The finest wine I've ever tasted!"
"I'm glad it's distinguished enough for you, sir," said Ferri. She was wearing a flirtatious grin, and, goodness, did her eyes just flit down to his trousers just now?
Not to be outdone, Richard matched her grin with all the charm he could muster. He knew just how to win a woman with his smile- he'd practiced it in the mirror more times than he could count. "Oh, please, don't call me sir. I'm called Richard, but I'd like it if you would call me Rich."
"Is that so? Well, if you're Rich then it shouldn't be hard for you to leave a nice, big tip for me, hmm?" Ferri stroked his chin playfully, then turned and wiggled her huge behind at him, just a little bit. Just enough to be noticeable. It was a subtle but unmistakable invitation, one that made his trousers suddenly tighter. "Just sit tight, and we'll have your food out in no time."
As she walked away, Richard let out a long breath and leaned back in his chair. "Well now! That was unexpected. It's almost a shame. I was quite looking forward to charming her, but it seems it won't be necessary."
"What are you talking about, Rich?"
""Oh, you poor fool," Richard chuckled. "You didn't even realize, did you? Of course, someone as... wholesome as you, it probably went right over your head."
"What did?"
Richard leaned in close and whispered. "Stanwick, she's a whore."
His brow scrunched up and his mouth opened- the expression of a simpleton deep in thought. "She did keep flirtin' with me even after I told her I was married... Blimey, I think you might be right."
"Of course I'm right. It's not something a man such as yourself would notice, but to someone of my cunning, it's as plain as day."
"But, she didn't say nothin' to me about tipping though. Why would she tell you that and not me, if she was a whore?"
"She probably realized that she would get no money out of a scrupulous man such as yourself, so she didn't try."
