In the evening, the Frosted Ram was as loud and rowdy as ever.
It was normal in the northern mountains, where the cold never went away and snow fell all year. Most men here preferred to have strong liquor warm their bellies before any work got done. The tavern sat near the edge of the village, half-buried beneath layers of snow and frozen stone. The tavern's roof sagged beneath a thick white blanket that Fred cursed at least twice a day but never fully cleared away.
Inside, the fire was always stoked, and liquor and meat were always served. Instead of a sweaty kind of smell, the tavern smelled of wet dogs, as the men had wolf fur on their shoulders.
Selma moved through the crowd like the wind, serving everything before anyone complained.
"There," she said, setting the last mug down harder than needed. "Drink that and try not to choke on your own tongues from babbling so much."
