Afia

A raucous, well-worn tavern tucked away in a quieter corner of Levithal—far from the polished arcane institutions and refined promenades of the city’s heart. A known haven for mercenaries, adventurers, and thrill-seekers, it hums with the energy of wild stories and harder lives. It’s where contracts are negotiated over mugs of bitter ale, new companions are found at the end of a wager, and old rivalries resurface after too many drinks. The tavern has earned a reputation as a neutral ground for dangerous folk, where brawls are tolerated, but betrayal is not. Run by Garret Steelarm, a retired fighter with the bulk and scars to prove it, the Iron Flask prides itself on camaraderie through competition. Garret's standing challenge—a free drink to anyone who can beat him in an arm-wrestling match—has become a beloved rite of passage. The tavern is rowdy but warm, its regulars loyal and its traditions fierce, making it both a gathering place and proving ground for Levithal’s rougher crowd.

From the outside, the Iron Flask is squat and sturdy, its weathered wooden façade framed with iron bracing and a door that groans with age and weight. Lanterns flicker dimly on iron hooks, casting a dull glow on a rusted plaque bearing the tavern’s name. Inside, warmth radiates from a central stone hearth, its flames licking at a thick iron cauldron suspended above. The scent of spiced meat, old smoke, and sweat fills the air, grounding visitors in the tavern’s no-frills comfort. Weapons line the walls—some pristine, others chipped or bloodstained—alongside cracked shields, faded flags, and mounted beast skulls. A few maps, hand-drawn and wildly inaccurate, add color between the steel. The furnishings are functional but worn: long tables with mismatched chairs, benches etched with the names of past patrons, and a bar darkened by years of spilled ale and hard elbows. Behind the bar, shelves brim with dented tankards and dusty bottles of potent, often mysterious spirits.