Good ale, honest food, and a fire that never goes out.
The Dragon's Jaw has stood on Trader's Row longer than most people in Arabel have been alive. It takes its name from the enormous jawbone of a young dragon mounted above the front door — a trophy from the founding landlord's adventuring days, now blackened with age and soot. Nobody remembers what kind of dragon it was. Nobody asks.
These days the Jaw is run by Mordecai Ashburn, a former mercenary who traded his sword for a bar cloth twenty years ago. The scar from his left ear to his jaw, he'll tell you, was a bar fight. It wasn't. It was a sword cut earned somewhere he doesn't talk about.
Mordecai runs a simple house. The ale is good, the food is better than it has any right to be, and the fire in the great stone hearth never goes out. Purple Dragon soldiers drink alongside caravan guards, merchants close deals over the long tables, and those with secrets find dark corners to trade them. It's loud, it's busy, and everyone's welcome — provided they behave.
There's always something on the spit. Prices are given in the usual coin — copper (cp), silver (sp), gold (gp). Ask Bessa if she has the dwarf bread in; sometimes she does.
the fireplace & spit — the kitchen never fully closes
Mordecai, behind the barBarrel-chested, grey-streaked hair pulled back, a scar from ear to jaw that he claims was a bar fight. Twenty years behind this bar; twenty years before that with a mercenary company. Notices everything. Doesn't care what you do, provided you don't do it in his common room. Keeps a cudgel beneath the tap. Has never had to use it twice on the same person.
Bessa, at the ledgerStocky, capable, reddish-brown hair in a practical bun, ink-stained fingers from doing the accounts. Runs the practical side of the Jaw — orders, money, staffing. Remembers faces, and what they were drinking three visits ago. Carries a short knife on her belt that she uses equally for cutting cheese and discouraging wandering hands.
Old Harken, by the fireWiry, white-bearded, permanently installed in the corner seat by the fire with a half-pint of mild. Retired Purple Dragon sergeant. He dozes, he mutters, he occasionally says something extraordinarily sharp and then pretends he was talking to himself. Buy him a proper drink — not the mild — and he'll talk about things beneath this city that most folk have forgotten.
Mordecai keeps a leather-bound book on the bar. Most people ignore it. Some don't. What follows is copied, faithfully, from its pages.
“Best ale south of the High Horn. The landlord looks like he's killed a man. He has.”
— a Purple Dragon, off-dutyStew was hot. Bed was dry. Nobody asked me my name. 10/10 would flee here again.
— T.Lost a purse here. Found it the next morning on the bar, untouched, with a note reading only “don't be careless”. I will not be careless again.
— Merchant of SelgauntI asked the old man by the fire the way to the old cellars. He laughed at me for a full minute and then told me. He was right.
— name withheldROOM 4 HAS A GHOST. IT IS POLITE. IT DOES NOT LIKE SNORING.
— R. HalfmoonA fair house. A fair landlord. I have stayed in worse places in better cities.
— Sister Alenna of ChaunteaPinned to the wall inside the front entrance.
Mordecai keeps it tidy. Bessa keeps it current.
WANTED — for the theft of a strongbox from the counting-house of Master Vellan, last seen the night of the third of Ches. A tall figure in a green hooded cloak, favouring the left leg.
Report to Captain Hallas at the garrison. Do not approach.
Four wanted. North road to Tilverton, leaving at dawn the day after next. Must have own sword and not be afraid of orcs. Pay: 2 gp and a bed at the other end.
Speak to Hargan Oakshield in the common room. He will be the one shouting.
— HarganLost: a brown tabby cat answering to “Onion.” Last seen near the fish stalls. If found, please return to Mira, apprentice at the apothecary on Linen Lane. She will cry until he is returned.
Reward: two honey cakes and my everlasting thanks.
— MiraOne (1) warhorse, grey, fifteen hands, sound in wind and limb. Trained. Gentle with children, not with strangers.
One (1) set plate armour, fitted for a man of my size, lightly dented. See the dents for yourself.
I will not be needing either any longer. Ask for me at the Jaw.
— Sir Corwin of MarsemberHas anyone else heard bells beneath the streets? Three nights running. I do not drink. I am not mad. I am asking.
If you have heard them too, I will be in the snug on Tenthday evening. I will buy the first round.
— a concerned citizenFresh eels. Live. Cheap. Today only.
Back door of the kitchen. Don't ask where they're from.
— J.A matter of some delicacy concerning an old family holding west of the city. Discretion required. Strength of arm useful. Strength of character essential.
Leave word with Mordecai. I will find you.
A few streets back from the Market Square.
Look for the jawbone above the door.
You can't miss it. Nobody ever does.
The fire's always on. The kitchen never fully closes. There's always something on the spit.
the exterior at dusk