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What's one more pint...
A rather barren and abandoned looking space, what few wooden table that have not been flipped or broken are coated in dust and strange stains, the only light source by candlelight chandeliers, though no flame is lit upon them. Rotting wooden floorboards creek as the building settles, on what exactly you are not completely sure. The world outside of the windows are never remain constant for ore then a few seconds, blink and you go from a quite village to a bustling street filled with cars and large gelatinous creatures passing overhead. Returning your gaze across the room you see and a burly horned creature behind the bar, polishing a horridly stained drinking glass, paying you little attention, looking more board, behind him sits rows of beers, flagons, strange chemicals bubbling in flasks, and many other questionably consumable liquids, no price is posted on the exact price of any of these drinks though you consider whether ordering would be best of your health. There is a small stairwell just behind the bar, and a trapdoor leading to most likely a cellar, wait, where would you even put a cellar?
On the opposing wall resides a large board, written upon it seems to be the standards at which this "Establishment" sets itself. As you glance at it the creature yells not to you but the room in general, "Ey! If you haven't been here before you better get 'erself antiquated with what the Rule's Board has to say! I ain't having another incident of dropping you lot in a pocket dimension till we sort out a goddamn 'stolen boot' dispute!" you are slightly confused by the outburst as he simply returned to sorting bottle along the shelf, one of them occasionally sprouting legs and moving to a different spot on the shelf, amusing itself with the frustration it was causing. Things appear to be rather eccentric here and you feel you should acquaint yourself with how things work around here, if you have yet to already. -
A small tavern that sits at the precipices of realities intertwined, a home for those who have lost they're way or simple have no were else to turn. A place some choose to call home.
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Meanwhile...
Several small men, covered in complex circuitry and mechanical pieces crawl out from behind the bar, one of the holding a rusty chainsaw, turns around and revs it menacingly at the others, who are wearing ponchos and wielding sporks. "Try me, ya fookin' gits! Ya skronk pot tippers best get well da gettin' good!" seeing the the rusty tool they turn tail and flee out the entrance as another patron enters, followed closely by the chainsaw wielding robot man of a rather...Short... Stature.
Boy, that sure was improbable! -
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A small tavern that sits at the precipices of realities intertwined, a home for those who have lost they're way or simple have no were else to turn. A place some choose to call home.
