The Sleepy Sylph

4C3P This popular tavern stands at the southwest corner of the intersec¬tion of Rainrun and Snail Streets, at the other end of the same small block of buildings as the Red-Eyed Owl. Its frankly risque signboard depicts the sylph the tavern is named for. But while the Owl is a cozy local watering hole, this place caters to visitors. Lots of colored driftglobes float about, and many scantily clad waitresses (wearing diaphanous robes and fairy wings of silken gauze stretched over fine wire) hurry about, dodging the strolling minstrels hired by the tavern. Under the many-hued, drifting lights, patrons can eat almost nothing and drink as much as they can afford. Only skewered whole fowl —chicken, quail, turkey, or pheasant—are on the menu (1 gp each). Each fowl comes with a darkbread tren¬cher and a plate of lemon slices that most patrons use to cut the grease from their fingers after eating the fowl. Drink is 3 cp/tankard for ale, 5 cp for bitters, 7 cp for stout, 1 sp/ tallglass for zzar or house red or white wine, and 2 gp to 25 gp by the bottle for more exotic things. Locals in the neighborhood no doubt come here for a single drink, to enjoy the music and to watch the waitresses —and then go to the Owl, just steps away to eat and drink at about a third the price. (I saw more than watching going on, but turned modestly back to my glass, which was practically sobbing to have more little drinks poured into it.) For the money, though, you get spotless white tablecloths, good food brought to you in a hurry, music, and a chance to see other rich folk dining. If you aren't rich, why are you here? Proprietor: The owner and operator of the Sleepy Sylph is Callanter Rollingshoulder, a tall, fat man dressed in dark silken robes and a red Calishite sash, with the bushy ends of his truly magnificent mustache adorned with tiny, golden, chiming bells.