The Rusted Dragon Tavern

The darkened walls give way to the dimly lit common area of the The Rusted Dragon Tavern, a frequent rest stop for travelers entering and leaving the bustling city of Krakorum. All kinds of guests come in and out of places like this, but The Rusted Dragon does have a tendency to attract the rowdy, the aggressive, and the low. It's not a haven for scum and villainy like some other places inside the city, thanks in large part to the establishment's owner. The place is owned by a jovial, high spirited dwarf by the name of Drandee. He is scarcely in a foul mood and tries to spread positive feelings to everyone who comes through his doors. He is fond of parties and feasts, and has even been known to create his own holidays as an excuse to have more of them. As a consequence the tavern has a reputation of being a bustling place where a merchant or performer like you can walk away from The Rusted Tavern with a good bit of coin in hand.

It's the kind of place you imagined when you ran away from home. The Bronzebark forests where you were born were quite beautiful in all seasons of the year, and you certainly weren't running from a bad family or anything of that sort. It was simply too slow, too quiet, and too stolid. Perhaps more than anything though, your fellow elves were painfully snobbish and toxic. There was no appreciation of art beyond examination of the technical precision and craft of the piece; be it a song, a story, a painting, or the like. Anything that was not done in their exacting fashion was met with utter disgust. There was no attempt to convey emotion in anything, and none of the elves had the slightest interest in what the rest of the world was doing. You couldn't stand this and left on your own to see what the rest of the world and its other species had to offer.

Part of what the elves back home said is absolutely true; humans, orcs, and the lot are a filthy and uncivilized lot, but you fail to see that as a detriment. Their culture, despite its justified criticisms, was at least a living thing that one could participate in and contribute to, rather than merely attempting to replicate what was already done. A sea shanty could lift morale of the entire crew, even while lost at sea. A tribal war cry could rally an entire **** in a mad frenzy, tipping the odds in their favor even when vastly outnumbered. A soft melody, in the right place and at the right time, could spark a romance that burns for a lifetime. Just as the culture was more interesting here, the people in it were more to your liking as well, especially found the males among the other races. Something about their proportions, their mannerisms, their very being was more pleasing to the eye and to the heart for you. You've wondered before if there's something wrong with you for not finding your own kind especially attractive, but on such a night as this, you scarcely care.

Tonight was the fabled Feast of the vanquished dragon Garagt; a fiction that Drandee created about the dragon figure that the tavern takes it's name from. All of the routine guests know it's all a big ruse, which has only added to the celebrations and the humor. People join in making up wild fantastical stories and songs about the evil dragon and the lone halfling hero who slayed it. In years past, a travelling troupe even through came to give a "dramatic reenactment" of the slaying. As with all of Drandee's fabricated feasts, food and beer is in ample supply, as is cheer and laughter.

Among all of the joy, there seem to be at least a few who aren't having such a great time, which piques your curiosity.