The fish was crispy-fried and perfect, the ale was cold, and the serving wenches were comely and, to judge by their giggles, willing. All in all, it was the most perfect tavern he'd' ever found in all his years of wandering. All the more reason for him to distrust every single perfect square inch of it. He might have discounted the fish, the ale, and even the serving wenches if he'd found one of them, but all of them together spelled a lure to pull in himself, and he was guessing not just himself but every other able-bodied man in there. He debated for a moment about lingering and seeing what had cast the lure, but odds were it was an unlicensed magician working with the slavers, or at least a press-gang team for the navy. He'd had his fill of that when he was younger and dumber, so he stood up and when the serving wenches seemed--

Inspiration: A fish recipe.
Story Potential: low potential.
Notes: Not really a story idea, just a pleasant little vignette.