The Barkeep's Tavern records

Just off Shepherd’s Hill, where maps fade and common sense gives up, there stands a tavern. Not advertised. Not forgotten. Just... remembered by the wrong kind of people. It’s a crooked little place — old in brick, older in purpose — and its patrons are the sort who rarely travel with luggage but always carry a story.



Behind the counter stands the Barkeep. A man? Maybe. A rumour with a good memory? More likely. Cloaked in shadow, dressed like he misplaced his century, he polishes glasses like each one holds a ghost — and most do. He built the tavern not for profit, but as a terminal: a stopover for things from elsewhere, elsewhen, and occasionally, elsewhy.



Here, stories bleed out like spilled whisky — war tales from forgotten realms, whispers from the end of time, confessions of gods who fell off their pedestals. The Barkeep listens. He always listens. Each tale is wiped into the glass, and each glass is shelved, not cleaned.



The Barkeep’s Tavern Records is not a series of stories. It is a catalogue of things that should never have been said aloud. Welcome in. Drink slow. Speak carefully. The glass might remember you.