Centuryburg

Krag the Barbarian sat in the corner of the Flytrap, the only tavern in Centuryburg. Ever since the death of his adoptive parents at the hand of the man with seven fingers, he had been searching the world over for the secret of his mysterious past. His only clues were a magical katana and a birthmark shaped like a crown on the back of his hand. His body covered in scars he did not remember, muscles burgeoning as he put his weathered lips to the mug and took a swig of ale. He placed his axe on the table and motioned for another tankard.

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Milton the Human Farmer sat at the bar of the Flytrap, the only tavern in Centuryburg. Ever since he'd lost his wife to the spells of the mad wizard who sought to make an example of them, he had kept low, trying to make enough money to feed his only daughter. His only possessions in this world were a rake, hoe, and a birthmark shaped like a puddle of vomit on his back. His hands were covered in the calluses of a working man, sighing as he took another drink to try to erase the pain. He tapped on the bar and asked for some water.

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Aureus Treestridewolfmaster the elf Wizard sat to the left of Krag, drinking a glass of wine. He would not touch this human swill they called mead. Not after sampling the glorious fruits of his homeland. No, he drank the finest elven wine purchased with gold from their last adventure, for he was a lost elven prince out to prove his claim. He could barely stand the pile of muscle named Krag, but the brute was useful.

Naturally, Aureus was not happy about stopping in some town out in the middle of the woods. These humans could not hope to provide lodging suitable for their betters. But, alas, it was all that was available.

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Durn Glorin, dwarf blacksmith, sat to the left of Milton, drinking a tankard of his own. He wasn't too fond of the brew the humans called beer, but it was what he could afford on an honest salary. After drinking the mead at a dwarven feast, however, you come to taverns for the company rather than the drink. He smiled and patted his friend Milton on the back. He'd lost most of his life savings after a bandit horde laid waste to the town, and was doing what he could to help the rebuilding efforts.

Naturally, Durn wasn't happy about being stuck in some town in the middle of the woods. But the humans needed help, and alas, he was all that was available.

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Drongo Dilwater, Halfling Cleric, sat to Krag's right. Such a den of iniquity as a tavern was no place for a holy man. But here was where much of the work for adventurers came. He was loathe to spend time with sinners and brigands, but it was the only way to spread the holy light of the gods to these ignorant peasants.

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Walter Grouse, human priest, sat to Milton's right. Such a house of conviviality as a tavern was a wonderful place for a holy man to meet with his flock. For here he could help them with their lives, and that was the best way to spread the message of the gods.

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Krag grunted. The barbarian was getting antsy waiting for his next drink- the barkeep seemed more occupied socializing with a farmer and a dwarf than a band of heroic adventurers. He began to head up to the bar to give that gnome a piece of his mind.
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Adrian Davisson, gnome bartender, sat on the other side of the bar, pouring up drinks for his regular customers. He was getting antsy as the scarred man wearing nothing but a katana and loincloth advanced toward the bar. But he sighed and got ready to give the barbarian a piece of his mind.

The barbarian bellowed out. "Do you know who I am?"

"A human wearing a loincloth a foot longer than it needs to be?"

"I am Krag! Son of a family slain by the man with seven fingers! Wielder of Doombringer, the mystic katana! Leader of this band of adventurers!" To emphasize his point, Krag began swinging his sword around.

An imperceptible twitch passed over the barkeeper's mouth. "I'm sorry, did you say... adventurers?" The gnome reached under the bar and handed the barbarian a clay bottle. "Please, sirs, accept our apology. I was not aware you were such... weary travelers. Accept this, our village's finest wine, please."

"That's more like it." The barbarian said with a grin, uncorking the bottle and making his way back to the table.

The priest, farmer, dwarf, and barkeep returned to their conversation about the farmer's daughter, watching from the corner of their eyes as the barbarian poured glasses to his companions and raised a toast. A moment later, they began to sway on their seats, the bottled pesticide the farmer provided for just such an occasion taking effect. Throughout the tavern, patrons drew daggers and slings from under the tables- though none from the tables in the corners.

The bartender spoke, cocking a crossbow and leveling it at the cleric. "Boys... let's show these fine folks how we welcome adventurers in Centuryburg."