There are many taverns in the world, most of them perfectly ordinary, which is precisely why this one is so suspicious. It sits at the edge of the barrow‑lands in the sort of location that cartographers politely label Here Be Something because they can’t agree on whether it’s a crossroads, a boundary, or a clerical error in the fabric of geography.
Travelers arrive here with the usual assortment of excuses — wrong turn, bad map, questionable life choices — but every so often someone steps through the door wearing the expression of a person who expected to be somewhere else entirely, possibly several centuries from now, and is only just realizing their mistake. The barkeep has stopped asking questions. He’s found that anyone confused enough to arrive here is usually confused enough to buy a drink.
The tavern itself is older than it looks, younger than it feels, and exactly as large as it needs to be at any given moment. On quiet nights, the regulars swear they’ve heard the building sigh, as if it’s trying to remember which world it belongs to. On louder nights, it simply pretends not to notice.
What matters is this: from this room, the world opens in several directions at once. Some paths lead to shining regiments and humming sky‑shards. Others wander toward chivalric banners, grim corridors of metal and shadow, or the uneasy politics of sovereign crowns. And somewhere far above all that — though no one can agree on how far — lies a place where the stories narrow into something personal, mythic, and inconveniently emotional.
For now, though, it’s just a tavern. A warm fire. A battered table. A few unlikely allies deciding which road to take next.
And if the universe occasionally pops in to check the specials, well… it never stays long enough to settle its tab.
Crown Wars Path
Some doors in the tavern lead to distant stars or forgotten wars, but a narrow side‑path near the hearth opens onto something far quieter. The air there smells faintly of tilled earth and woodsmoke, and the floorboards creak as if remembering footsteps that never belonged to travelers. Folks say that if you listen closely, you can hear a dog barking somewhere impossibly far away — not in alarm, but in the resigned way a creature barks at something it’s seen too many times.
Grimdark Path
Some doors in the tavern lead to quiet fields or humming void‑ships, but one battered hatch near the bar rattles as if something on the other side is arguing with it. The hinges shake, the floorboards vibrate, and every so often a muffled shout of triumph or confusion leaks through. Patrons pretend not to hear it. The hatch is marked with a hand‑painted sign that simply reads: “DON’T.”
Classic Sci‑Fi Path
Some doors in the tavern lead to fields, void‑ships, or rattling star‑hatches, but a narrow metal stair near the back descends with a steady, rhythmic clank. The sound is too precise to be accidental — the measured tread of boots drilled into obedience. A faint draft carries the scent of machine oil and recycled air, and every so often a clipped voice barks an order no one in the tavern quite understands. The regulars say the stairwell leads to “the Marches,” and they say it with the weary respect reserved for old empires and older grudges.
Classic Fantasy Path
Some doors in the tavern lead to quiet farms or rattling star‑hatches, but a tall archway near the hearth glows with a warm, flickering light. The scent of pitch and oiled leather drifts through it, along with the distant clatter of hooves and the unmistakable ring of steel being tested before a march. Travelers say the light brightens when a contract is about to be signed, as if the fire itself is leaning forward to listen.
Silent Reliquary Path
Some doors in the tavern lead to places that are merely dangerous, but one corridor at the far end carries a different weight entirely. The air there feels older, thinner, as if the world itself is holding its breath. Travelers who glance that way swear they hear a faint metallic hum, like a ship dreaming in its sleep. No one admits to taking that path on purpose. Those who do usually claim they were “called,” though they never agree on what did the calling — only that it sounded terribly polite.
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Available Scales: 6mm | 8mm |10mm True | 10mm Heroic | 15mm True | 15mm Heroic | 20mm | 28mm
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1 Tavern Scenic Base
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1 Dwarven Merchant
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1 Human Scholar
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1 Elven Wizard
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Single‑pose sculpts
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Some assembly required
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Clean, bold shapes ideal for fast painting
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Compatible with all Crown Wars factions and most fantasy wargame systems