The rain has been falling for days, leaving the land wet and dark across the southern reaches of the Empire. Seasonal storms have rolled over the Black mountains to the East, trumpeting the fall of the autumn leaves and the coming of Winter. Torrential downpour consumes Averland this time of year, the roads become muddied and the rivers flood washing out trails and roads.
You sit in a near-ancient Coaching Inn only a few hours from the River Riek called the Apple Candy. It was a once a popular tavern a long time ago, but a new dirt road redirected the traffic twenty years ago and the inn has barely scraped by since.
The wooden two story building is dilapidated and aged. The roof leaks heavily and the ground floor smells of stale ale, mildew and mold. There are nearly a dozen old tables and worn out chairs that creak when you sit in the common room.
The bar itself is no more than a few wooden planks placed over a few empty barrels. The planks are old and show carved names, dates, and old stains from wine and blood.
A thick armed bartender with handlebar mustache watches you carefully from behind the bar, almost cautiously as you wait for your friends. The man is not hostile but is quite serious not taking lightly to squatters or zealots looking for free wine and food.
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