From: alden@coos.dartmouth.edu (Laurie F. Alden)
Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
Subject: Barmaid's Journal 17
Message-ID: <1992Sep27.142713.20181@dartvax.dartmouth.edu>
Date: 27 Sep 92 14:27:13 GMT

ADMIN:  Sorry to have been out of touch so long, mes amis!  Serene is
the DI Barmaid, feel free to use her for taking orders and backdrop.
Real interactions are mine, mine, mine ;)

 A flurry of potato bits - with less salt than usual - and popped corn
is prepared in basket after basket for the little ones who come with
news for Littlefair.  Serene's ponytail swings as she swirls from table
to bar, but her lithe passing between patrons and chairs is hampered a
bit by her swelling belly.  The development seems to be larger than
expected for the length of her pregnancy...

Doc Pan's generous tip was well appreciated, and tuna fish sandwiches
have been dispersed.  Chocolate milk was a new one for our illustrious
barmaid, and she tested it much to her delight.  With Mary's approval,
Serene has added the treat to her regimen...  And a serving of
everything was set out for the stuffed toy, as well.

Chip-chiti is approached with a cheerful, slightly apologetic smile.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it is not the policy of this Inn to serve live
sentient being with free will as foodstuffs."  Her eyes light up as she
suggests, "We could serve you many varieties of elven foods, building
blocks, as it were, or perhaps you would care for a live non-sentient
dinner?"

Serene takes the order, thanks her lucky stars that she has not been
burdened with morning, evening, or any other kind of sickness, and
retreats to the kitchen.

Nightstalkers enters, she begins to bring his usuals to his favorite
seat - within easy distance of Listener, out of the firelight.  His
unexpected diappearance upstairs unsettles her, however, and she casts
a worried, questioning look to Littlefair as he hands the barcloth to
her, following the Nightstalker.  Littlefair only tweaks her red hair
and gives her a guarded smile as he goes.  Serene sighs, catches
Listener's eye, asking silently for a tale of the Fog to cheer her,
strokes her belly, and reaches under the bar for her stepstool.
Perched atop it she comes within half a foot of Littlefair's height and
begins wiping mugs in his absence.

The wind is picking up a little bit.
--
Ecclesiastes 3:8.5:  There is a time to fish and a time to cut bait.
lfa@dartmouth.edu