A Seat at The Golden Tavern
A large sign hangs above the entrance to The Golden, it is badly damaged, and only the top third is readable, stating plainly "THE GOLDEN". The logo and bottom text are burned beyond recognition. Obviously this tavern had a longer name, but at some point in history lost the second half. The sign is faded blue, with shining gold text. The enrance is a single, highly ornate door.
The Golden Tavern is adorned with colorful tapestries, abstract art, and mismatched furniture that creates an eclectic and cozy environment. Dim, ambient lighting sets the mood, and the air is filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of glasses. It is a haven for creativity and expression, where patrons feel free to be themselves, share their thoughts, and forge connections with like-minded individuals.
Sights
The Golden Tavern thrums with a subdued elegance, a dimly lit haven carved from the rugged bones of FeketeTo’. Warm amber light spills from wrought-iron lanterns, pooling on polished wood tables and stone walls that glow like honey in shadow. The crowd, though scattered, is deliberate in their placement—artists lounging at corner tables, sketching or flipping through worn notebooks; poets mid-monologue, their hands gesturing to an invisible rhythm.
The room feels layered, like a painting with too many details to take in at once. A wall of mismatched tapestries—dark crimson, deep indigo—frames the space, their patterns swirling like secrets you’ll never unravel. Along the edges of the room, plush chairs and long benches seem to invite sprawling conversations or quiet brooding.
A cluster of drow (not quite) aristocrats occupies one side of the bar, their attire a blend of tradition and rebellion: silken tunics with frayed edges, lacquered armor pieces worn more for aesthetics than protection. Their white hair glints in the low light, falling in sharp angles or loose waves, like strokes on a dark canvas. Nearby, a group of human youths, clearly outsiders, leans over a table cluttered with empty glasses, their laughter sharp, their clothes casual but tailored.
Sounds
The music doesn’t overwhelm; it slides through the room like smoke. A Drow bard in loose, flowing garb plucks at a lyre, her voice low and smoky, weaving a song that’s more feeling than melody. It’s not a performance—it’s an undercurrent, threading through the murmur of conversation.
Patrons speak in hushed tones, their voices intimate, like every word is meant only for the person in front of them. Someone snaps their fingers in the back corner, punctuating a poem performed in a gravelly drawl. Glasses clink softly, chairs scrape across the stone floor, and now and then, a dry laugh cuts through the haze, brief and biting.
The bartender moves in near silence, her footsteps a whisper against the floor as she pours drinks with practiced grace. Even the occasional outburst—someone stumbling in late, or a burst of applause for a witty remark—feels like it’s wrapped in velvet, muted by the space itself.
Smells
The air is thick with contradictions—rich and smoky, with a sweet edge that’s almost cloying. The hearth, fed by slow-burning driftwood, perfumes the room with a faintly fishy scent that mingles with the deep, earthy aroma of pipe smoke curling up from a cluster of drow at a corner table.
There’s the sharp tang of spiced wine, cinnamon and clove mingling with the bitterness of strong, dark ales. Someone nearby sips a coffee-like brew that smells of roasted chicory, its aroma cutting through the heavier scents like a knife. Beneath it all, the faint metallic tang of damp stone lingers, a reminder that this is still FeketeTo’, no matter how hard The Golden tries to pretend otherwise.
Feel
The tavern feels like a contradiction: cozy yet electric, intimate yet sprawling. The chair beneath you creaks just enough to remind you of its age, the table’s surface smooth but scarred with countless nicks and scratches, each a little story in itself. The air is warm, close, but not stifling; it wraps around you like an old coat.
There’s a sense of ease, but it’s layered with something restless—a collective hum of untamed energy, as if everyone here is waiting for the next brilliant idea, the next verse, the next moment to spark.
People
This is no tavern of dockhands or soldiers. Here, the patrons are lean, sharp, and deliberate. The artists wear loose, flowing garments smeared with ink or paint, their fingers always twitching as if ready to sketch the next thing they see. A human poet leans back in his chair, a scarf slung carelessly around his neck, reciting verses to an audience of nodding drow and humans, their faces caught between genuine interest and ironic detachment.
The drow aristocrats hold themselves with a languid elegance, their wine glasses filled with something dark and syrupy, their laughter soft and knowing. They are here to escape, to shed the weight of courtly life, but they can’t quite shake the air of superiority that clings to them like perfume.
Scattered among them are outsiders—wealthy youths from the surface, eager to taste the danger and glamour of FeketeTo’. Their clothes are expensive but artfully disheveled, their voices loud in a way that sets them apart, though they don’t seem to notice.
Ambience
The Golden Tavern is a place of curated individualism, a sanctuary for the disaffected, culutral rebels, and the inspired. It’s a pocket of FeketeTo’ that feels unbound by its harsh rules and rigid hierarchy. Here, ideas flow freer than the drinks, and the only law is the unspoken agreement to let the moment happen.
It’s a place where the smoke doesn’t just rise; it lingers, curling around the edges of conversation and laughter, softening the lines between stranger and friend. Time doesn’t move here; it drifts, carried by the low hum of voices, the faint strum of a lyre, and the quiet clink of glass.
Sitting at your table, you feel like you’re part of something—a scene, a movement, a fleeting moment in the story of a city that’s both ancient and alive. You don’t know whether to write it down, paint it, or just let it wash over you. Maybe all three.
