They slowly entered the bar.
The inside matched the exterior. Exposed brick walls lined the space, dark red and scarred with age. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling, thick and heavy, stained almost black from decades of smoke and humidity.
The floor was uneven stone, worn smooth in some places, cracked in others. Gas lamps hung from iron chains, their flames casting flickering amber light across the room.
The bar itself was a long slab of polished oak, nicked and gouged in a thousand places, but still solid. Sturdy. Immovable.
People sat scattered across the tables. Some alone, nursing whiskey in silence. Others in pairs, speaking low over their drinks.
Hahahaha
A group near the back corner laughed at something, their voices rising briefly before settling back into the low hum of conversation.
Nothing seemed amiss.
No one looked up when Jorg and Makun entered. No one stared. It was just a bar. Old, tired, and completely ordinary.
