The Slumbering Dragon is a tavern and alehouse serving clientele of all kinds. Sorcerers, wizards, adventurers, nobles—the doors have seen the cloaks of every sort. 

 

Its rich atmosphere is built on deep foundations. Not only literally, placed as it is over the rubble of City of Vemer (the Empire of Ven’s esteemed capital, which is crawling with cruelties and bursting with treasure), but metaphorically, too—it is at the heart of a neutral zone at liberty only due to an accord of five deeply strange and differing nations.

 

Run by Ragart Frostblood and actually run by Svenya, his sister, this tavern is a trophy room of sorts. Jars of strange creatures and alchemic ingredients are mounted next to mirthful ales and resplendent shields. One of the grandest pieces is a section of the wall dedicated to the twelve swords of the fallen, each one a beautiful ode to a missing friend. The walls themselves serve as home to mushroom knights, requested by Svenya so that she may train them to defend the realm. 

 

The tavern’s neutrality also serves to protect complex druidic bindings, vast pillars submerged beneath the earth, keeping the dragon, Vela, asleep under the Venic ruins until time ends. He is bound by magic from each nation; however, this doesn’t mean they don’t try to interfere with one another. Each one keeps a permanent delegation in the tavern proper to ensure no meddling from the others, and to meddle themselves. Representatives sit in huddled groups or laid-back circles, demarcating a space for their own followers. 

 

The Talon Elrana delegation skulks in a corner, secretive as ever, their booth’s walls lined with avian poetry and birds’ nests. Magical familiars protect the space from prying eyes.

 

The Huldenbergians hold no such compunction for secrecy. They sit in the center of the space, at one of the largest tables, over a map of the world they have carved into it themselves. Covered in a myriad of card games and mercantile notes, it serves as a center for noise and play.

 

The Mycandonian section of the tavern, as mentioned, is the walls. Digging complex tunnels, they have built bath houses, mines, and temples. Ragart had to install windows to peer inside, feeling that having an eye on the buggers would be useful and adorable. 

 

Dour as always, the Dreadmarsh claims the corner opposite the birdfolk. Taking up two booths, gas masks and elven magical sigils sit side by side with potion-brewing equipment and a wyvern head converted into a candle stand. While Ragart prides himself on his establishment’s even lighting, this place feels darker for some reason. 

 

The Frontier Kingdom’s have neither wish to replicate this atmosphere nor to play into the other nations’ hubris. Positioned next to the bardic stage, their cluster of tables is dominated by Veilmentaari mid-construction and magical crystalline tubing. 

 

This arrangement of nations sits fine with Svenya, who reckons someone will give you less trouble when you can look them in the eye. 

 

In between are the tables and booths for everyone else, the tavern’s vast and varied regulars—and for you. You are probably the most interesting patrons, an unsung song, new and fresh. This scares Ragart but stirs his questful soul. How you interact with these nations, what ale you order, what food you eat, what stories you tell will be the true gift his tavern will have given him.

 

But enough talk of that for now; something is bubbling over in the kitchen.