Mariol had named the place a tavern; Vilon would have batter called it a stable. It certainly smelled like one, a mix of wet hay, cheap tallow, and unwashed bodies.
The walls were built of dark, weathered wood and the roof was thatched with yellowing straw, looking no different from every other structure in the hamlet. Who knew? Perhaps by sole virtue of being the last building left unburned, this place could claim the grand prize as the most magnificent tavern in all of Oizen. Or at least on this side of the border.
Ash did not make a great opponent.
There was very little to distinguish the establishment from a common peasant's house, save for the faded wooden sign swinging above the door that displayed an unmistakable, overflowing mug of ale.
