A Tavern.
A crooked little place tucked into a half-collapsed alley just outside Esgard's third district wall—its name half-scorched off the hanging sign and its windows covered in soot and grime.
Inside, a heavy fog of pipe smoke lingered like ghosts refusing to leave. The scent of ale, sweat, and burnt meat fought for dominance in the air.
Ian sat at the far corner table, cloaked in tattered gray and hood pulled low.
Eli sat across from him, similarly dressed, his golden eyes dimmed by a smear of soot to keep their telltale gleam hidden. A tankard sat untouched before Ian while Eli nursed his second mug, eyes occasionally drifting to the flickering fire pit in the center of the room.
But their real attention was on the patrons.
Dozens filled the tavern—miners, gamblers, cutthroats, city guards off duty—all huddled in booths or circled around the bar counter. And all of them talking.
Loudly, drunkenly.
