There is a place which- through some mysterious magic or mind boggling science- exists for every universe, every world, everyone who might need it. Through some feat of travel, emotional or physical (the arguments about how one gets there have been going on for generations) a person can find themselves upon the door step with very little effort. Considering all the different things that may affect someone, it's no small wonder then that this place is a tavern- what problems aren't frequently solved, soothed or drowned completely with food or drink or good company?
Above the door hangs a placard, a metal plate shaped like a round, gleaming portal, the name of the place in bold lettering naming it only as "The Tavern". It glowed blue, faintly so. The odd crackle of electricity bounced from the sign to a lit lamp beside the door, drawing your attention to a second sign beneath the lamp. It stated, simply, "All Travelers Welcome."
As you enter the tavern through the front door, you find yourself in a round entry hall. There is a small desk to one side, with a bored looking, burly guard sitting beside it. As you approach, the guard looks you over and says, gruffly but politely: "Weapons check, please. House rules." On the wall behind him is a sign: "Please check all weapons to ensure the safety and comfort of other patrons." There is a board full of hooks with hanging silver tags beneath it. You check any weapons you have on your person, and are handed a number before you pass into the main hall.
This place is large, and yet, still comfortable. A fire burns in a large circular hearth in the center. Chairs, benches and cushions surround it, occupied by various relaxing patrons, many with drinks in their hands. To the rear of the building is a long bar, lined with tall stools, and behind it, a wall of every possible drink imaginable, and maybe a few outside the imagination to boot, bottles lined up in neat, colorful rows. It is clear that the tavern keepers wish to provide liquid comfort to whomever may show up on their door step. The air is filled with the smells of delicious food. Servers are carrying plates and trays of meals to the diners arrayed across the motley collection of tables and chairs surrounding the central area. Some are playing games. Many tables are adorned with packs of well used cards, and cups filled with dice. There are even a few board games. In the corner, there is a somewhat noisy group of folks who, upon a closer look, prove to be taking turns in an arm wrestling match. Their laughter and friendly jibes adds a cheerful air to the atmosphere. Some folks sit alone, silently brooding.
The Tavernkeeper greets you. "Welcome," he says warmly. "Please, make yourself comfortable, and order whatever takes your fancy."
Above the door hangs a placard, a metal plate shaped like a round, gleaming portal, the name of the place in bold lettering naming it only as "The Tavern". It glowed blue, faintly so. The odd crackle of electricity bounced from the sign to a lit lamp beside the door, drawing your attention to a second sign beneath the lamp. It stated, simply, "All Travelers Welcome."
As you enter the tavern through the front door, you find yourself in a round entry hall. There is a small desk to one side, with a bored looking, burly guard sitting beside it. As you approach, the guard looks you over and says, gruffly but politely: "Weapons check, please. House rules." On the wall behind him is a sign: "Please check all weapons to ensure the safety and comfort of other patrons." There is a board full of hooks with hanging silver tags beneath it. You check any weapons you have on your person, and are handed a number before you pass into the main hall.
This place is large, and yet, still comfortable. A fire burns in a large circular hearth in the center. Chairs, benches and cushions surround it, occupied by various relaxing patrons, many with drinks in their hands. To the rear of the building is a long bar, lined with tall stools, and behind it, a wall of every possible drink imaginable, and maybe a few outside the imagination to boot, bottles lined up in neat, colorful rows. It is clear that the tavern keepers wish to provide liquid comfort to whomever may show up on their door step. The air is filled with the smells of delicious food. Servers are carrying plates and trays of meals to the diners arrayed across the motley collection of tables and chairs surrounding the central area. Some are playing games. Many tables are adorned with packs of well used cards, and cups filled with dice. There are even a few board games. In the corner, there is a somewhat noisy group of folks who, upon a closer look, prove to be taking turns in an arm wrestling match. Their laughter and friendly jibes adds a cheerful air to the atmosphere. Some folks sit alone, silently brooding.
The Tavernkeeper greets you. "Welcome," he says warmly. "Please, make yourself comfortable, and order whatever takes your fancy."
