Smoke fills the room through lazily ascending fingers of fume rising from various pipes, fatty-candles and the rare arcane text. It is brought about to full robustness by the torches that sparsely line the walls belching forth their thick, tar-like smog. Everything quiets down when you enter, and all eyes are upon you in an instant. You can feel dozens of the bar's patrons sizing you up. Luckily, most dismiss you out of hand. You sigh a small sigh of relief, and pick your way through the crowd towards the bar, one hand upon your dagger, the other covers your coin purse. You've few enough Emperial Crowns as it stands, and you can't afford to lose any more tonight. You're here to hire some muscle to venture out again. She calls to you, and has since the first time you stepped through her gates. Mordheim. She beckons to you now, and so you are back here to spend what you have left to recruit more able (or mostly able) bodied men to accompany you back to her. May the gods have mercy upon your soul.
Welcome to the Rust'd Cup Inn. Your comments are welcome.