Goblin Tavern the Crystal Ball

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Background

The Goblin Tavern the Crystal Ball sat at the edge of the forest like an old machine too stubborn to die. Its tin roof was patched with mismatched sheets of brass, and the chimney belched a slow, greasy smoke that smelled faintly of coal and old whiskey. Pipes ran along the outer walls like veins, hissing now and then with bursts of steam that kept the night fog at bay. The sign above the door—a bent metal plate with a crudely stamped hen—swung unevenly in the wind, squealing against its rusted hinges.

Atmosphere

Inside, the air was thick with heat and soot. The lamps weren’t oil but small clockwork things, their filaments glowing a dull amber as tiny gears whirred beneath smoked glass. Shadows jittered across the walls, thrown by the flicker of flames inside the mechanical hearth—a squat iron contraption that groaned whenever the barkeep kicked it back to life.

The floor was dirt, tamped hard and uneven, littered with bits of straw and spilled liquor. Every few planks of makeshift wood groaned beneath a bootstep. The bar itself was a monstrous thing: a counter cobbled together from salvaged airship hull and broken wagon boards, its edge lined with dented copper tubing that hummed faintly from the heat of the still hidden behind it.

Inside feeling and people

Patrons clustered around the tables, farmers and tinkerers alike, their hands stained with grease and earth. A few wore goggles pushed up onto their brows, lenses cracked and fogged from a long day’s work at the mill or forge. The low murmur of conversation was broken now and then by the hiss of a valve, the clink of a spanner dropped onto the floor, or the wet cough of someone who’d inhaled too much coal dust in their time.

Behind the bar, Old Merrin polished a glass with a rag that looked worse than the glass itself. The old man’s left arm was a clumsy automaton, its brass joints clicking faintly as he worked. He never smiled, not really, but the corner of his mouth twitched when someone paid in full.

Outside, the wind carried the faint pulse of machinery from the valley—the sound of the mill’s great piston driving another sleepless night. But inside the Copper Hen, the world was dim, dirty, and alive with the heartbeat of steam and sin.

The guest rooms were little pockets of worn-out comfort. Each one had a cot bolted to the wall, its mattress thin and full of straw that crackled when someone shifted. The blankets smelled faintly of smoke and machine oil. A dented stove crouched in one corner, chuffing out warmth and the occasional belch of black smoke when the pressure ran too high.

Pipes crisscrossed the walls and ceiling, dripping steadily into buckets that never quite filled. The wallpaper, once patterned with curling vines and tiny moons, had peeled away in long strips, revealing the raw wood beneath—darkened by steam and years of neglect. A cracked washbasin sat beneath a sputtering pipe that pretended to be a faucet.

Still, there was something oddly alive about the place. The soft hum of distant gears, the sigh of pipes, the occasional hiss from the vents—it all gave the sense that the Goblin Tavern itself was breathing, watching, waiting. And though the rooms were small, dim, and often filled with the restless noises of other travelers, one comfort remained the same for everyone who stayed there:

When night fell over the tavern and the lamps guttered low, the tavern’s whispering heart never quite let you sleep in silence.

The Goblin Tavern: The Crystal Ball had always carried an air of unease, the kind that clung to the walls like soot. It wasn’t just the grime or the crooked pipes or the way the floor groaned under every step—it was the people who ran the place.

Tavern Owners

The owners, a pair of siblings known only as Marn and Lessa, had smiles too wide and eyes too still. Marn handled the bar, thick hands polishing brass fittings that never seemed to shine. Lessa managed the rooms upstairs, always with a little too much warmth in her voice when she handed over a key. Locals whispered that the two had come from the capital after “an incident” involving stolen designs and a nobleman’s airship. No one asked questions now. Not twice, anyway.

The second floor bore their touch most of all. Every room had a story—strange noises, guests leaving before dawn, a few never leaving at all. But one door, Room Seven, had earned its own reputation. The cheapest of the rooms and is located on the 1st floor behind the bar.

ROOM 7

From the hall, it looked no different than the rest: a weathered door of patched wood, a tarnished number plate, a dim brass lamp that flickered low. Inside, it seemed ordinary—cramped, sour-smelling, the kind of place where you’d rest your head only if you had nowhere else to go. But those who stayed long enough noticed things that didn’t fit.

The floor slanted ever so slightly toward the wall where the pipes ran. The air felt warmer there, and if you pressed your ear to the boards, you could hear faint ticking—not the friendly whir of clockwork, but something deeper, pulsing like a heartbeat. The wallpaper in that corner always peeled faster than anywhere else, revealing a strip of iron plating beneath.

The trap wasn’t mechanical, not exactly. It was both—a blend of alchemy and steamwork, a cruel invention of Marn’s own design. When triggered—by a certain weight on the bed, by a coin placed on the nightstand, by any number of subtle cues—the room sealed itself tight. Iron shutters dropped over the windows. Steam hissed from the vents, hot and blinding, and the floorboards split open to reveal a hidden compartment below. They dropped to the basement to a cage. Once inside the machine would reset the room unlocking the door seemingly like nothing happened inside.

And yet, Marn and Lessa kept Room Seven open. Kept it cheap. Kept it waiting.

They said it was bad luck to sleep there. But bad luck, like everything else at the Goblin Tavern, had a price—and the owners knew just who was desperate enough to pay it.

After capture

Victims where stripped down to just a tunic and there faces covered with a feather-etched blinding mask

to hide who they are, and to keep them quiet.

Those who fell into the trap where sold to passing slavers or to the wagon peoples faction.