The road to Atkatla was tiring and you decided to stop for the night in Crimmor. Among dozens of taverns, you decided not to tire yourself with the choice and entered the nearest one.

It was a pretty good two-story tavern, not dirty, quite crowded, made of strong wood, with a pleasant light from candles flickering on a modest hanging wooden chandelier in the center of the ceiling.

A couple of waitresses periodically dart here and there between the revelers, serving drinks to travelers on trays, and in the corner, on a small pedestal, sits a bard, plucking the strings of his lute with his fingers. A elven woman stands behind the counter, rubbing mugs, looking at the visitors with a proud, appraising gaze. In the corner, in front of the door to the kitchen, an impressively sized white dragonborn stands with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes flashing menacingly.

"Oh, another traveler, come, I’ll pour you ale," said the woman behind the bar, not distracted from her work.