Morning begins before sunrise at [[The Silver Flagon]], announced not by a rooster but by [[Emberra Quillflare]]’s magic cracking like firewood. A pan sizzles, sparks pop, and in the staff quarters [[Belgo Underfern]] yelps awake, knowing from long experience that Emberra’s “*just warming up the stove*” could easily mean breakfast or something exploding. [[Sera Windmere]] is already up, quiet as a cat, helping [[Ellira Leafsong]] sweep the entryway and light lanterns. Ellira hums a serene elven melody while she works; Sera follows the tune with soft harmony, their voices drifting through the empty tavern like a blessing before dawn. Up front, [[Dante Thaylen]] trudges in with the dead-eyed resignation of a man who swears he works here by mistake. He lights the sign-in desk lantern, straightens the quill cups, mutters about unrealistic opening hours, and pretends he doesn’t enjoy the early calm. That peace lasts roughly four minutes- exactly how long it takes [[Randal Fallowbrook]] to arrive. Randal bursts through the door like he owns the place, kicking the dirt off his boots, already debating aloud whether [[The Spellplague]] or [[The Second Sundering]] had “*the better third act*.” Dante glares without looking up from the ledger. Randal takes that as a sign to continue. They argue across the lobby as naturally as breathing, Dante’s voice low and irritated, Randal’s bright and theatrical. Ellira sweeps between them with total serenity, and Sera listens with barely-hidden amusement. The sun climbs, and customers begin to trickle in. Sera glides to the second floor with trays of bread and honey, while Belgo bustles around the third-floor gambling tables, greeting early patrons with unmatched enthusiasm. He tells every gambler that [[Therona Eldwynair]] “personally inspired his work ethic,” whether she did or not. The gamblers believe him. His earnestness is disarming. Meanwhile, Emberra runs the kitchen like a pirate captain, shouting orders with ember-crackling flair. Dante delivers the first meal slip of the day with a grimace; she hears him coming and salutes him with a flaming ladle. “Morning, Captain’s clerk.” Dante never smiles at that, but the corner of his mouth always twitches. By midday, the Flagon is alive. The second floor thunders with laughter and tankards, the third floor hums with dice and halfling jokes, and the lobby is an alternating duet of Dante’s exasperation and Randal’s commentary. [[Rowan Eldwynair]] moves through it all like the inn’s beating heart, checking stock with Randal, helping Sera carry a heavy tray, steadying Emberra’s temper, and lifting Belgo up to reach high shelves. Therona appears briefly, armor gleaming, to check on business and glare Randal into behaving for a full two minutes- an absolute record. Afternoon drifts into evening, and Ellira decorates the inn’s corners with small woodland flowers, a quiet ritual she’s never explained but everyone respects. She places an extra one near the landing where Dio once sat listening to the staff’s chaos- just a small touch, easy to miss unless you know what it means. Night falls, and the Flagon swells with adventurers telling tall tales. Emberra’s cooking reaches its fiery crescendo; Belgo dances between tables with plates stacked higher than he is tall; Sera’s voice cuts through noise when she needs order; Ellira clears with the grace of a drifting leaf. Randal stocks from the shadows, muttering theories about mythic histories, while Dante settles disputes with the weary authority of a man who’s survived far worse. And when the lanterns finally dim and the last patrons stumble out, the staff gather for a rare quiet moment, Belgo half-asleep, Sera sipping tea, Emberra reheating leftovers with a flick of her fingers, Ellira winding down with soft elven hums. Dante leans back in his chair; Randal needles him about his posture; Dante insults Randal’s shack; Randal feigns heartbreak. Rowan just laughs. It’s loud, chaotic, imperfect, and endlessly alive. It’s the Silver Flagon.