When not drilling, sleeping, or on patrol, garrison soldiers flock to this raucous two-story tavern to meet with friends, chant drinking songs, and drown themselves in ale and good cheer. A blue-shingled roof tops filthy white plaster walls. A faded fresco painted on the building’s face depicts a dancing imbecilic hill giant in a yellow dress. Patrons must enter and exit via a door positioned between the giant’s legs. This is Flailing Felanore, a dim-witted young giantess captured by the garrison militia 40 years ago and “granted” to the proprietor of a favorite watering hole to serve as mascot. The attraction worked, drawing visitors from as far as the Free City to gawk and stare at Felanore’s awkward gyrations. Though Felanore died from an outbreak of the Red Death plague nearly 20 years ago, the free-standing circular center stage on which she once pranced remains the most prestigious musical venue in town, if not nearly the most titillating.
Garrison soldiers make up most of the Spinning Giant’s regular patrons, with a handful of mine overseers and merchants rounding out the crowd. Most who come here consider themselves honorable, and expect similar conduct from others. They do not tolerate pickpockets, and respond harshly when confronted with a crime in progress. They hold a similar disdain for Diamond Lake’s constabulary, and have made it known on many occasions that Sheriff Cubbin and his boys are not welcome on the premises. Nor do they welcome Diamond Lake’s poor, including most miners. Regular patrons routinely “suggest” that riff-raff instead visit one of Diamond Lake’s other fine establishments. Soldiers act with bravado in these encounters, knowing that most of the Spinning Giant’s other customers will have their backs should a fight break out.