Torchy's Tavern
Torchy’s is a singular oasis of hospitality and heatstroke peril in the heart of the Elemental Plane of Fire, perched precariously atop a jagged basalt crag that juts like a black fang from the middle of a slow-moving lava river. The crag’s volcanic base constantly radiates blistering heat, and molten stone bubbles and laps at its base like a sea of flame. Rising above it, like a defiant thumb pressed into the eye of elemental fury, is a stout, iron-walled tavern known to planar wanderers as Torchy’s.
Torchy’s is a paradox: a haven in a hellscape, a place of rest and revelry in the midst of endless flame. It is a waypoint for the daring, a rumor mill for the desperate, and a neutral ground respected even by infernal powers. Despite the danger—or because of it—Torchy’s is beloved by those who brave the Inner Planes. After all, where else can you toast a fire elemental and live to tell the tale?
Architecture
Torchy’s is an iron keep turned tavern, its walls scorched and warped from centuries of ambient heat. Reinforced with interplanar alloys and cooled internally by subtle elemental wards, it maintains just enough stability to keep from melting—but still radiates a cozy, almost intolerable warmth. Inside, the lighting is entirely ambient: glowing braziers, magma chandeliers, and flickering wall sconces made from captive fire elementals cast a flickering glow across the tavern's open common room.
The furnishings are stone and iron, etched with arcane runes that keep them barely cool enough to touch. The bar is made from obsidian polished to a mirror sheen, run by Flindra Torcheye, a half-efreeti barkeep with flame-red hair, ember-black eyes, and a dry wit sharper than a fire scimitar. Flindra is infamous for her no-nonsense attitude, lethal drinks, and uncanny knowledge of planar gossip.
Defenses
Reaching Torchy’s is an adventure in itself. The most reliable route is by hot-air balloon, often crewed by native fire-resistant guides or enchanted with powerful wards against heat and ash. Updrafts from the lava below make balloon travel both feasible and harrowing, with fiery gales threatening to toss the unwary into the molten depths. A few particularly bold visitors arrive by teleportation, or ride winged fire elementals—but only those with immunity to flame or powerful magic survive such direct approaches.
A rickety iron docking platform and mooring tower await at the summit, tended by heatproof constructs and half-melted signage. The air is thick with ash and laughter, the smell of burnt spices, smoked meats, and sulfur, and the ever-present groan of strained metal.
Tourism
Torchy’s draws a mixed clientele: efreeti nobles in disguise, salamanders on shore leave, curious mortal adventurers, rogue azer mechanics, and even the occasional planar scholar or wandering celestial who got lost—or came looking for someone. Deals are struck, stories traded, and fights mostly avoided thanks to Flindra’s personal enforcement of tavern law.
The menu is equally eclectic and dangerous. Dishes like charred hellboar ribs, ember-braised voidfruit, and smoke-distilled spirits are staples, though anything labeled “mild” still comes out steaming enough to set tablecloths aflame. One specialty, the Phoenix Shot, is served in a fireproof shot glass and comes with a warning: “Drink fast, or it drinks you.”
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