BFNT: The Copper Settlements

Ah, the Coppers. Beautifully rugged, and ruggedly beautiful, like the three finalists at the Great Combination Outdoor Fight and Beauty Pageant.   As the first morning rays of sun delicately illuminated the outside of my eyelids, the smell of coffee brewing from every tent, house, lean-to, and stilt-shack was a nasal symphony like none other.   I got some family nearby and spent summers here as a boy. There are some seriously good times to be had, most of which would be considered “unprintable,” or “illegal," and “physically improbable, but technically possible, I guess, but can we please stop talking about it, I’m trying to eat breakfast?”   I assure you, readers, that the physical proximity of Esther's Seat has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with this particular reverie. Esther is a dear, sweet lady who’s only had to threaten to kick me out of her upstanding establishment twice...   …good times.

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The sign on the door says The Brass Tankard. The lady behind the counter, Constance, she tells me, is nice enough, and the beer is colder than the ambient room temperature. Their snake jerky (snerky) is exquisitely spiced, don’t miss it. Bathrooms are extant. Honestly, what more could you ask for out of a good small-town bar?   Speaking of missing things, where are the bards in this place? The stage here is a diamond in the heap, just going to waste. The acoustics are insane. I just burped and, my gods, the resonance!   Given that my curiosity is roughly as insatiable as my appetite, I had to ask about it. Constance says all she can get in here is a magician. Can you believe that, readers? Card tricks, on a weekend? Magicians aren’t even that impressive! My kid nephew is a sorcerer, and I watched him walk face first into a sheep’s rear-end last week while trying to zap a cockroach with a ray of frost.   Now, this town might have a rough and tumble reputation, but I’m telling the world right now, I’m calling this shot: doesn’t matter who you are now, the bard with the nerve to tackle the Brass Tankard will be the Tritos Dominion's "Next Big Thing." That’s a Globule guarantee, right there.

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So, my uncle Gunk, the eminent gourmand of the area (which is to say the fattest goblin around), has word of a place in the southern cluster that has been making the same soup, from the same stew pot, just constantly adding things and seasoning and serving and adding things and on and on, for the last twelve years.   He dragged me through a series of confusing alleyways and at least one person’s tent, but finally we made it there, to this continuous, ever-lasting soup. He spent the entire time talking about it.   The line was fairly long, but moved quickly enough. There was a kind of palpable excitement in the air as we got closer. Gunk and I hit the counter, ordered a bowl each, paid, and moved down to the second tent flap to wait a few seconds. It was getting a bit dark at this point, so I couldn’t get a good look at it, but the smell was phenomenal, intoxicating almost. And the taste?   The taste was kinda greasy, and a little heavy on the salt, if I’m being honest, and I’m always honest about food. To be fair, though, Uncle Gunk will eat anything.

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Thanks once again, readers, for your contribution to the Crammin Chronicler (they’re paying for this jumbo bag of road snerky). Keep your eyes sharp and your ears sharper!

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