The Bastion, Tavern
The Bastion stands like a stone sentinel just a short march from the North Gate barracks, its weathered timber facade reinforced with iron banding that mimics the armour of the soldiers who fill its benches each night. A carved shield bearing no crest hangs above the doorway—neutral, practical, and unmistakable. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of sweat, smoke, and spiced ale. The tables are solid oak, scarred from years of elbows, dice games, and the occasional thrown tankard, while the stone-flagged floor is mopped more for appearances than sanitation.
The crowd is almost exclusively military—off-duty guards, city watchmen, grizzled veterans, and the occasional fresh recruit looking to prove they can hold their drink. The atmosphere is loud, but generally well-behaved—this close to the barracks, few dare push their luck. A back staircase leads to a row of private rooms for hire—available by the hour, no questions asked. Some are used for rest, others for private meetings, and more still for the kinds of arrangements best kept out of sight. The innkeeper, a former sergeant named Corven, keeps order with a glare more effective than any cudgel, and the staff know better than to ask too many questions—especially when the coin is clean and the door stays shut.
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