The Drunken Horns was a tongue in cheek name for an excellent eatery run by a family of Hellkin. And when members of the watch tried to harass them, the local royals, all human, happened to be there having dinner. It was their favorite place to unwind. Needless to say, the local watch soon learn that these royals do NOT like such behavior at all. -- Anon Guest
This is the restaurant Dzak built. This is the chef with the crumpled horn who married the maiden who needs to be shorn, and brews all the beers from dusk to dawn, all in the place that Dzak built.
It's a very nice place. Lovely decor. Many who come there are very surprised to see that it was run entirely by Hellkin.
The greeter and waitstaff are Hellkin. The head chef is the very Dzak that established it. Their most obvious feature being one horn bent very much out of shape and shrivelled, compared to its healthier companion. The matching scar, near the crumpled horn, spoke of lucky survival and old, speciesist prejudices.
Merriment, the wife of the two, grew soft fleece on her arms and legs. She sheared herself every spring and there were some who treasured it for its downy softness. It was the colour of burnished oak, much like Merriment herself. She's the brewmistress, and many said that she could make good beer out of a lazy wind.
It's a family-run establishment, and none of them are directly related to any others working there. The Drunken Horn is how so very many learn about the odd habits of Hellkin society.
Hellkin families are rarely made under the sanctification of a deity. They are found. Stolen from bad places. Forged in the fires set by peasants with torches. Stitched together by the bonds of shared torment. They frequently claim elders as aunts, uncles, or even 'unty's[1]. Those much older are claimed as grandparents. Younger ones, of course, are nieces, nephews, or niblings[2].
They band together, and make themselves a family of outcasts. Sometimes they even make new Hellkin that are related. And they are always ready to run. No matter how well it seems that they have settled in or put down roots. Because there's always someone who could threaten them all at the drop of a hat.
Case in point, the city watch entering in force in the middle of the dinner rush. All armed and armoured. All looking for trouble before it was lost. All not-so-secretly wanting trouble to start.
Hellkin are so used to this sort of thing that they're permanently prepared.
"Welcome to the Drunken Horn. Do you have a reservation?" The greeter, Serenity, smiled warmly. "Business is busy tonight, so there might be some wait in the courtesy lounge or garden until a table is clear."
"We're not here for a table, teuf[3]," sneered the spokesguard, revelling in watching Serenity flinch for a weapon she didn't have. "We're here on a violation of the Voiceroy's food and safety laws."
"Gotta look for vermin," rumbled the brute of the squad, cracking his knuckles.
The way they were all sneering made it clear that rodents and insects weren't the vermin they had in mind. They were classing Hellkin as 'vermin'.
"We only ask that you don't disturb our guests," said Serenity, straining her last nerve to the snapping point. "They have paid very well to have a pleasant evening."
"If they're paying well," said the spokesguard, "we might be convinced to do our inspection later."
"Like weekly," said the brute.
"The safety of our fair citizens is a hefty weight," the spokesguard gestured with an empty palm. "I'm going to need a very good counterbalance."
There had been a merry party going on at a large table with a lot of guests. Good tippers, as far as Serenity was concerned. Very friendly, patient, and polite; which was restaurateur gold. Better than gold, honestly. One had noticed the squad and left the party to sate their curiosity.
"Is there a problem?" said the gentleman.
"Nothing you can do owt about," rumbled the brute. "Shove off, pipsqueak. This is between us and the vermin."
A second member of the large party on Table Four had followed. They singsonged, "You said the wrong thi-ing..."
"Oh yes, they did, my dear bard," said the gentleman. "Do please introduce me. All the puff titles."
A deep breath. The classical recitation stance. "You have the honour of being in the presence of the Viceroy Toninalus Wynnoc Andrus Phaustinium, fifth of the name, trueborn and firstborn son of the Duke Toninalus..." The names and titles went on for twenty minutes.
The squad knew that they were deep in the dung before the bard had pronounced the young Viceroy's name. And they could not leave for fear of incurring his father the Duke's wrath. Not that they were doing very much to avoid that.
"I don't appreciate my citizens being menaced by alleged officers of my father's law. And I especially do not appreciate officers of my father's alleged law menacing my favourite restaurant. Or ruining my night. Which you are doing because now I have to escort all of you to my father's castle."
The rest of the party rose. The Viceroy's adventuring crews politely asked for their weapons from the coat room. And left a hefty tip. Proceeds from their last adventure.
The next time those people came in? Dzak was going to comp their dessert.
[1] The gender-neutral variant.
[2] Gender neutrality strikes again.
[3] There are fighting words, and killing words. This is the latter amongst Hellkin.
[Image Title: Banquet Still Life. Creator: Abraham van Beyeren. Date: 1655]
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