Every exit and means of leaving the tavern took the occupants to a new destination, one none had come from or been to before. In fact it was an entirely odd place for a tavern to be sitting. Solitarily deep in a ravine.

The ravine stretches out like a jagged scar between two towering cliffs, their rocky faces casting long, menacing shadows as dusk settles. A cold wind howls through the chasm, carrying the scent of earth and steel. Above, the sky is dominated by two moons: one, a pale silver orb, hangs low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the battlefield, while the other—a blood-red moon—looms ominously, staining the clouds in deep crimson hues.
Along the steep cliff edges, jagged outcroppings jut like broken teeth, forming natural vantage points. Below, the ravine floor is a chaotic mix of rough, uneven terrain. Patches of dying grass cling stubbornly to life amidst boulders and ancient, twisted trees, their gnarled branches reaching skyward like skeletal hands. The ground, still stained with the remnants of past battles, crunches underfoot with dry leaves and brittle twigs, while the shallow stream running through the center of the ravine glistens like molten silver in the moonlight.
A low mist curls along the ground, shrouding the battlefield in an unsettling, ghostly haze. The air is tense, heavy with the weight of anticipation. In the distance, the rhythmic pounding of war drums echoes faintly, growing louder with each passing moment—a haunting signal of something approaching. As the red moon reaches its zenith, the ravine seems to thrum with energy, the ground almost vibrating as if in fear of the impending bloodshed.