Deep in Laisedhiel, on the first floor of course where drunken fauns cannot fall more than a few feet on their faces, there is a tavern called The Leaky Acorn. Tables and chairs scatter the cavern of a room. A stage and open area - music and dancing is allowed if the occasion calls for it - occupies one corner, a bar with stools, the other. Behind the bar and a potbellied Faun mans the massive pot of stew. A savory scent float through the bar and out into the great tree around the entryway. Bronson scratched the fuzz on his head where hair used to be. Age was not entirely kind to the faun; a hard life of protecting faunkind with his fellow warriors saw to that. Retirement softened him though; his laughter was a deep and boisterous noise that rose deep from within him, shaking his gut and bringing water to his then-squinty eyes. There was nothing soft or reserved about the old sot, especially after one or three of Mojo's special brews. The chef often joked that his favorite light was MoonShine, and he enjoyed a fine young lass sauntering about his establishment.
