Warning: Fourth-Wall Breaks
There is a timeless tavern. It was built many, many, many, many, many, many years ago. Anyone who was there for the opening is long dead, buried in pages upon pages of history. This tavern is not a place of great history. Merely a footnote in others. Many people of all kinds have passed through this tavern. It has been passed from family to family, person to person. Memories hang along its walls, placed by simple passersby and nostalgic generals and joyful commoners. This tavern is a place where names mean nothing. One of few. Thus, it must be protected.
The tavern remembers all who step into its doorway, be it warriors, bards, princes, protectors, wanderers, collectors, killers, or any other descriptor. When no one else remembers who stayed in this tavern, the tavern does. This tavern does not remember names, not even the ones carved into its flesh. No, it only remembers faces and titles. It remembers. That is why it must be protected.
I know you see this. I don't know how, but I know you will see this. For far too long I traveled, collecting stories to bring back to a ruined Library. My Golden home no longer exists. The Wanderer wonders why I published that book. I needed a reason. A reason to keep these stories. Well, now that my home is gone, I made a reason. You hear a lot of stories when you go to a tavern. All kinds. My favorite is still of The Ashbringer, though I have heard many variations. It was time that I put it to pen. I suppose I'm rambling. I can see the stars dying outside my tavern. I think I'm scared, pleading to an indifferent god to save my soul. Pleading to save my soul from a ravenous void. I've heard a lot of stories about gods. Kind ones, bountiful ones. Wrathful ones, deceptive ones. I wonder what kind you are.
+~~~+[There is a tavern that stands throughout time like a monument. like a brazen warning. threat.]+~~~+
