Moldy Unicorn
The Moldy Unicorn is a lean-to of a tavern, slouched against the sagging bones of three adjoining buildings in the Warrens of Crodeux. Its warped sign depicts a once-proud white unicorn, now tinged green with age and mildew. No one remembers the original name.
Inside, the air is thick with woodsmoke, vinegar, and damp wool. The floor tilts. The chairs don’t match. The beer is thin and warm. And yet, for many in the Warrens, it remains the only place in Crodeux where you can get a drink, dry your boots, and fear being asked no questions.
The clientele skews quiet and hard-eyed—carters, rat-catchers, coal-burners, thieves, and folk who remember better days but never left. Strangers are tolerated if they pay in coin and keep to themselves. Trouble is common, but quick to burn out; the barkeep, Gorra Thryne, keeps a spiked bat under the counter and knows when to use it.
The back table beneath the cracked window is always left empty. Locals call it the “seat for what crawled back.”
The beer’s warm, the floor leans, and the roof leaks—but no one stares too long, and that’s worth the coin.
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