Auntie Kate's

Auntie Kate's is a tavern in Qark.

"Auntie Kate’s tavern is probably the best place in town for a cheap drink that actually tastes good. Kate employs the weirdest old halfling brewers in town, and they make a good ale. Probably like four hundred years old between the three of ’em. Bodo, Hamfast, and Pete. They used to pay me to do their heavy lifting, and sometimes I’d give ’em piggy-back rides across town. Short legs make the commute longer; you know how it is. I can’t understand a thing those little fuckers say to me, to this day. Thick accents. Great guys, though. Anyhow, it’s a real friendly place. Nice big crackling fire, always a stew going, good card games, nobody ever having dramatic plot-intensive conversations at the next table. Kate’s got a rule against that. Also, nobody ever fights at Kate’s, because Kate’s got a rule against that, too. Worth mentioning (I suppose) that Kate is something like seven and a half feet tall. And maybe three feet across. Handsome woman. One time I saw her stuff a particularly rowdy elf into his own bag of holding. It was real exciting while it was happening, but it raised a lot of existential questions, not the least of which who the bag belonged to, post-stuffing.¹ The night’s mood soured a little. Not that Auntie Kate isn’t sweet as anything, it’s just that everybody with a lick of sense knows that if they start trouble, she’ll kick their ass into the next plane. Real sweetheart, my Kate. It’s just, there’s rules, you know? You stick to ‘em. It’s also considered (how d’you say) “uncouth” to ask Kate what her particular parentage is and whether there’s maybe some Firbolg or Orcishness in her family. That’s also an ejectable offense, for Kate.

¹ Not to raise an old argument from the dead, but the bag can’t possibly belong to the dude who got crammed in there, right? He’s out of the picture—in several senses. If he’s got a next of kin, maybe it’s theirs, but maybe it belongs to Kate now, by rights? It still bothers me."

- Owain Qark