There are many ways to drink and enjoy a night or two at a tavern. With stories to tell and stories to hear and games which, if won, provide your ale. And if you wake before the dawn, close your eyes and try again. And if fortune smiles upon you and you wake when day has broke, enjoy the bedding you have been supplied.
But most important of all is the bubbling brew of amber pure that greets the lips and humbles the throat while exciting the tongue and filling the belly. It matters little that the arms and legs often seem to bubble away as the brew. For such a drink is as much to refresh the mind as it is to cool and nourish the body.
A tavern after all is a magical place when coupled with a brew of choice. There is no need for Sorcerers or Conjurers, no Gods or Demigods. Here the magic comes from the place and all that dwells within. It’s a place where any mortal can and has bested any beast. It’s a place where a single hook can and has, by the skill and strength of the fisherman alone, brought a fish the size of a whale to shore to be consumed in a single sitting. Where, of course, the bones were washed away almost immediately.
It is also the place where tricksters thrive and any patron can win a bet, at least the first time until the stakes have been raised. And always by a fraction will a fight, bet or struggle be lost or contest of strength and wit forfeited by the kindness of the storyteller. The tavern and brew work hand in hand to make these impossible stories true, this magical place where each speaks their piece to be believed if only for a while.