Post by blank on Jan 29, 2013 17:10:48 GMT -5
An adventurer finds himself or herself (or itself) wandering through the outer edges of the city of Piltover, just at the edge of the swamp which falls away off the mountain.
Litters of narrow walk-ways along the cliff face lead to a tavern perched to the rim. A set of rusty pipes billow smoke from the top three chimneys all times of day or night. A bar that never seems to stop swaying whether it the churning steam and chimneys, chilling coastal winds or the endless commotion inside.
A set of large rustic brass doors guard the threshold, always closed but rarely is it bolted. . . .
Inside you find only bronzy warm and welcoming brass on surfaces, they glisten with a fresh spit'n'shine to them. The place often full of the most destitute of characters, with them trials the air clogged with a slick sauve smog. Cigars and coal flame are the only two sources of light to this tavern.
The bar features a long row of different flavoured spirits, ales, and assorted bevarages. No sign of a tender when you arrive to your stool. A while before you notice a single brass serving bell present on the counter-top.
Why don't you try it?
