Bilge Rat, Tavern
Tucked into the shadow of an old warehouse with its sign half-hanging on rusted chains, The Bilge Rat looks more like a squat than a tavern. Its cracked windows are clouded with grime, and the faint reek of stale beer, smoke, and rot wafts out every time the warped door creaks open. Inside, the floor is sticky, the air is thick with sweat and salt, and the only light comes from a few greasy lanterns swinging from beams overhead.
The patrons are a grim lot—dockside drifters, failed fishermen, and longshoremen down on their luck. Most drink slowly, nursing mugs of sour grog as if it’s the last coin they’ll part with all week. The barkeep is a bald brute with a milky eye who watches every face like it might turn feral.
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