After some questing about, Rory managed to track down a reasonably priced inn that didn’t discriminate in its clientele. Despite Isenmar’s larger size, the four discovered that the attitudes of Inquisitor Weiss didn’t seem to extend past the Fyrwood, and they were delighted to see a half-dozen or so other races wandering the streets. Humans were by far the largest portion of the population, making up three-quarters of the citizens the four witnessed in their walk toward the Cask & Kettle Inn. As with the imperial humans they’d seen so far, they seemed to be dusky skinned, dark of hair and eye, and overall healthy and well-fed.

Most numerous of the non-human races of Isenmar were the dwarves, which were roughly divided into two types. One group seemed to be mostly blond, red, or auburn haired, with burnished, tan skin, wearing primarily rich, autumn hues, their beards and hair adorned with gold and gems. The other group were almost universally raven haired, with paler skin, dark eyes, and beards bound and braided with what seemed to be forged steel. These dwarves seemed to dress mostly in dark leathers or somber, durable clothing.

Second to the dwarves were the tall, willowy elves they’d seen in Nafsbirg, nearly ethereal fae-like creatures with shining hair in shades of sunlight or moonlight. They mostly seemed to dress in shades of white and silver, though green accents were common. Half-elves clearly descended from these same elves were a familiar sight as well.

Finally, other than a smattering of other races, the remainder of Isenmar’s population seemed to be some type of halfling or gnome, roughly three feet tall, pale-skinned, with primarily white and grey shades of hair and massive, inquisitive steel or silver colored eyes. Everywhere the four looked, these diminutive humanoids were spotted carrying tools to and fro, working in craft stalls, and generally carrying on like industrious little ants.

“Do you think it’s weird that the little guys always seem to be working?” Erin leaned into the group as they walked.
“I mean, would it really surprise you to find out that the White Empire has a slave race that maintains their infrastructure?” Layla shot back.
“Maybe it’s just a thing they enjoy. We haven’t seen any that look like they’re miserable or mistreated,” Jack offered.
“Oh yeah, cause a purpose bred slave race that enjoys being enslaved is way better,” Layla made a sour face at him.
“I’m just saying, maybe it’s not as bad as all that,” he shrugged.

The Cask & Kettle Inn squatted just outside the edge of the town square, a block off the main plaza. They didn’t even need to see the sign to know they’d arrived. The building was so quintessentially, stereotypically, comically dwarven, it was immediately clear this was their place.

“I fucking love it,” Layla swooned into Erin’s arms.
“It's certainly, very... dwarven,” Rory whistled.

The inn was one story of beautiful dark wood sitting atop a story of perfectly squared and laid stonework. At each corner of the building, statues of armored dwarven warriors were carved from pillars of elaborately engraved stone reaching to the top of the second floor, supporting the gently rolling layered roof. The stonework pillars were inlaid with delicate lines of crystal that glowed with a gentle golden light, wavering like evening sunlight cast through honey. The inn was a primitive art deco masterpiece crafted by a medieval savant, every feautre a study in deliberate, painstaking skill.

“How the hell is this place not the focus of the town square? We didn’t pass anything half this gorgeous on the way here?” Erin stood at the corner of the building, lovingly running her hands across the stone.

“That’d be cause the plaza is only fer human businesses, lass,” a new voice rang out.

The four turned to find a stout figure watching them from the inn’s side door. As they watched, he dumped a bucket of grey water into a grate set into the edge of the street. Like most of his kind, the dwarf was under five feet, but he was clearly powerfully built, muscle moving under the skin of his forearms as he straightened and turned toward the four. His eyes were the clear blue of the ocean, and his black hair and beard were immaculately braided and decorated with a few silver cuffs. Other than those adornments, he was dressed simply, leather breeches, a thick hide belt, and a wool shirt, rolled up at the sleeves.

“Yeh come to admire the stonework, or yeh lookin’ fer a place ta stay?” the dwarf rumbled.
“Room for the night, maybe longer,” Rory returned, his infectious smile immediately rubbing off on the burly dwarf.
“Well, then, I’m Belgryn, and the Cask & Kettle is my place. Go on in the front, and I’ll meet yeh at the bar,” he chuckled.

They walked up the side street a bit further, swinging the iron-banded door open, revealing the warmly-lit interior of the Cask’s hall. Light filtered down from more inlaid golden patterns, these set into the ceiling in remarkable runic patterns. The inside of the inn was blessedly cool, and a haze of fragrant smoke drifted near the ceiling, which was only a hair above Jack's head. The clink of mugs and the low hum of conversation drifted toward the door until the it closed behind them. Two dozen faces, most of them craggy and bearded, turned dark eyes toward the group, assessing stares falling upon the only four humans inside this dwarven bar. A low voice carried to them from the bar across the room.

“Whotcheh think they’re doin’ in here?”
“Don’t matter to me. Their coin’ll spend as good as yers, Elgir,” Belgryn’s voice rang clearly across the bar. Mutters of disapproval wafted through the smoke from several of the dwarves.

“LISTEN HERE, YEH SALTY OLD SHITES. THEY WANNA STAY HERE, THEY GOT COIN, YEH’LL SHUT UP AND LEAVE ‘EM BE. Or yeh’ll pay double for yer drinks on the morrow,” Belgryn bellowed.

The silence was deafening.

“Umm… thanks. That’s not going to cause any trouble for you, is it?” Erin asked as the four approached the bar.
“Nah, lass. Just crusty old dwarves, got a rind ‘bout the Empire treatin’ us like secondhand citizens,” he replied. “Don’t worry yer head ‘bout it. Sides, yer not from here anyways.”
“We’re from-” Rory started.
Belgryn cut him off, “Don’t care, lad. Yeh’ll only lie anyways. Four foreign hunters with weird accents in full kit inside the walls, a week after the Festival o' Night? I’m curious, but I’m not stupid, lad. Just pay fer yer room, and steer clear of the whitecoats. Understand?”
Rory flashed his million-watt smile, “You know, Belgryn, I think we made an absolutely fantastic decision when we chose the Cask & Kettle.”
The dwarf grinned, “Will it just be rooms fer the night, or d’ya want dinner? Got a fresh cask of mead cracked an hour ago, beer' cold, or hot tea from the kettle.”
“Mead-Mead-Beer-My god, tea,” the four of them blurted simultaneously.
“Arright, mead for the lasses, tea for the gent, stout or lager for yeh lad?” Belgryn flawlessly shot back.
“Both,” Jack grinned.
“Ah, my kinda lad,” Belgrin laughed aloud as he began pouring drinks. “We got weyr dove, braised in beer with baked apples, or dornas flank cooked overnight on the coals, served with hot yams. If neither of those tickle yeh, the hunter’s pot is over the fire there. It’s mostly cairn boar, with potatoes, garlic, and forest onions.”

“What’s a hunter’s pot?” Erin whispered.
“Sometimes they call it a perpetual stew,” Jack replied. “You basically just keep it over the fire, adding spices and new ingredients as you go. It never stops cooking, and you just add new stuff to it over time. The longer you keep it, the more complex the flavors get.”
“Wouldn’t that spoil?” Layla made a face.
“Lass, even if I killed the fire, the runework on that pot would keep that stew hot and fresh till next month,” the dwarf laughed, then bent over and slapped the bar at Layla’s chagrined face. “Dove’s a silver, dornas's two silvers, bowl from the pot is five coppers. Mead’s five coppers, beer’s two, and the tea is one, lad. I take coin from any kingdom, so long as it’s not shaved.” He grinned again.

They consulted among themselves, ordered their food, and paid the man. He chuckled again as he pocketed the money, “Imperial coin. Bit surprised by that one.”

After asking for sugar, Rory was pleasantly surprised by Belgryn’s offer of honey instead, and sighed appreciatively into his cup as he sipped the steaming liquid, “Any chance you’d know where we can sell off our hard-won spoils from the trip through the Fyrwood?”
“So yeh did come from the capitol. Interestin'. Mostly hides? Got any crystals?” Belgryn’s eyes glittered.
“A few,” Rory smiled, sniffing at opportunity like a bloodhound. “Interested?”
“Nah, lad. My huntin’ days are behind me. But I know a few craftsmen I can point yeh at,” Belgryn smiled gently.
“Much appreciated,” Rory replied. “I hop-” he stopped short as Layla’s lascivious moan echoed across the bar from his left.

“There is no fucking way.”

His head turned, slowly, an almost audible creaking, like a door in a horror movie, “I swear to god, Layla…”

Another orgasmic murmur floated past Erin, sitting to Rory’s left, between the demon and the salesman. “What the fuck is she doing over there?” he gently elbowed Erin.

Rather than reply, Erin stabbed her fork at her plate in two swift motions and shoved the morsels into Rory’s gaping mouth. The moment the food touched his tongue an involuntary grunt escaped his lips. The savory saltiness of the dove melted into the thick sweetness of the baked apple, the two opposing flavors failing to muddle each other, instead creating a crescendo of distinct tastes that brought a second involuntary noise from him.

“Oh, my fucking god in heaven, that is so good,” he mumbled as he chewed.