The tavern sat like a tumor would— at the edge of the gate camp — crooked walls, broken signage, and a roof stitched with rusted metal plates and scavenged bones.
Smoke poured from shattered windows.
The scent: sweat, blood, and sour ale hit Ian like a fist the moment the doors creaked open.
"Welcome," Lyra said with a grin, sweeping her arm theatrically as they stepped in, "to the end of the world."
Inside, the Tavern of the Damned was alive with chaos.
A bard with a shattered lute played nonsense chords in the corner.
Two masked duelists sparred with daggers atop a bar table.
A woman in gilded armor drank from a horn full of flame. And everywhere — packed elbow to elbow — were killers.
Warriors.
The damned and the damned-willing.
All gathered in this liminal space, standing on the edge of Hellscape, daring it to blink first.
Often times, it never did.
