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It squats like a giant hen on the north side of the town square, large and comfortable-looking. A small swinging sign above the door indicates that this would be the Red Dragon Inn, the choice establishment of Senesse for weary-from-the-road travelers and weary-from-the-tedium locals. The cleanly hewn stone of the ground floor lacks the clean crispness of a new building, grime having built up in the miniscule cracks; yet the wooden upper stories have not yet acquired the oily glisten of innumerable layers of varnish that would suggest a lengthy history.

Menus lie prominently at every table, and the staff are polite and efficient. The locals say that this is a the new location; that the old Red Dragon Inn at the edge of town was devastated in a somewhat scandalous upheaval that no one seems terribly eager to talk about.

All things considered, it seems quite nice. There is a small beer garden out front with potted plants and a shade tree, and the whole building looks to be in good repair. Students of architecture might notice a strange warping of timbers here and there that suggest multiple rebuilds, Students of magical studies would notice the slight hum of enchantments and illusion buzzing out from it's walls; but certainly nothing to suggest anything foul. In a town such as this, a few anti-fire sigils and illusionary gaslights are to be expected.

Swinging doors up a modest staircase open to reveal a hotel lounge that hadn't been informed of its status as a pub. Whatever the logic behind the layout, it seems to work well enough for the locals. The barflies tend to stick close to the wall of liquor, the reservation desk sits empty until the little bell is rung for service. Diners of all ages chat over suspiciously healthy-looking pub fare, and there's always a lonely soul or two staring moodily into the large fireplace with an ale in hand.

The room glows warmly with what must have once been a tastefully clean and slightly unconvincing rusticness, heavy on exposed wooden pillars and beams; but at some point it seems to have suffered from a woman's touch. A woman, it seemed, with a sick sense of humor and a love of yard sales. Occasional curiosities and dubiously tasteful paintings are scattered at random in the soft illusionary light.

Highlights include an elvish ship in a bottle on the mantelpiece; a rudely taxidermied frog playing a mandolin atop a windowsill; and a velvet painting in the dim recesses of the room of the Dwarven Goddess of Love, the paint and pile on her right foot worn almost entirely away and her silky blonde beard covering up all of the fun bits. It all seems a bit forced, really. Like someone was trying to make it look like a home, but had mostly just succeeded in making it slightly frightening. Not that the locals seem to mind at all. Even naive farm-folk from the outlying countryside seem completely and entirely unfazed by anything less than a fireball being lobbed directly at them.

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