The tavern was the usual kind- dark, somewhat dingy, of questionable cleanliness and filled with even more questionable characters. Still, it was a place to sit, a place they could rest their heads and swords until the next battle, until the next quest that had them tromping from kingdom to kingdom. Some nights, they would drink the finest ale they could find. Others, they'd indulge in elven wine, or dwarvish whiskey. And still on other nights, the worst nights, when the nightmares and the memories were too much, they'd toast with the strongest, vilest drink they could. Orcish rotgut, as strong and wild as the mountains under which it was brewed. It smelled like smoke and pine, but it was just what they needed. Strong but surprisingly not bitter, it never failed to knock them down and pick them straight back up again. They didn't make a habit of it- too much was dangerous for you- but sometimes, you had to dance with danger in order to feel alive.
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