In a village where no one visits, the tavern exists because Barovia still lies on a road between two places that matter, and Anika Varga is stubborn enough to hold the door open. Half the wine is watered; half is genuinely from the Wizard of Wines in Krezk, and the trickle of Krezk cart-drivers keeps the supply alive. Vistani drink at the back table when they pass through. Villagers drink here only in the daytime; the tavern at night is a place for outsiders and for people who have run out of reasons to be in their own homes. The rooms upstairs number four. All four are always available.

The tavern door swings on tight hinges — someone keeps them oiled. Inside: a low common room, four tables, a bar, a hearth doing more work than it should. Anika Varga looks up. Behind her, a Vistani man at the back table does not.

Sensory

• Stew (rabbit and root, unless it’s Fridays)
• Spilled beer soaked into the floorboards — the floor is slightly darker along the bar
• Chimney-fire, oiled leather, wet wool drying