The River's Bounty

The River's Bounty squats at the water's edge in Three Rivers like a contented heron, all steep shingled roofs, crooked chimneys and timber gone silver with age. Spanish moss hangs from the great trees around it in long green curtains, brushing the roof and trailing over the dock, so that arriving feels like being gently welcomed by a damp, very old relative. Lanterns glow by the door and out on the pilings, and their light shivers across the dark water.

Inside, the air is warm with stew, woodsmoke and baking bread. Beams sag in a friendly way, a ring of silt called the high mark climbs the walls as a reminder of floods survived, and the fish on the sign wears a smile that changes depending on how much mead you have had. Out on the planked dock, nets are slung between posts, barrels wait in tidy rows and a worktable sees plenty of honest fish cleaning. It is a spot for travelers, ferry hands and townsfolk who want a meal that will not run out before they are fed.

People care about this place because it is changing. Once a smugglers' haunt, it is now run by a barkeep with a woman's touch and a firm hand: fresh flowers on the tables, a ladle always within reach and a look that can stop a brawl or start a flirtation, depending on her mood. Old habits linger in the shadows beneath the dock, and every patron has a secret or two. That makes it a fine place to hear rumors, strike a bargain or simply be fed and fussed over.