The Dawdlers, your adventuring group, have made their way across nearly sixty miles of wet wheat. With the previous town now long behind them, and their tents too damaged to keep off the endless rain, the sight of the next town is the only thing that keeps their spirits from trailing heavily behind them.
The only lights still burning in the town are The Central Station, a tavern with rooms and maybe even a pillow.
“I guess we sleep for the night,” says Dwight, the gnomish barbarian.
“Sure,” you say. “The inn keeper says he has space. It’s two silvers per room.”
“I give that.”
“And you rest in the rooms, and then you’ve had a full rest. You get your spellslots back.”
Ugh. What a missed opportunity. Continue reading “Crooked Taverns”