That tavern Barheim is a place like no other. However, calling it a place is almost a half-truth, as the building never stays in one spot for long. The building itself is as magical as the brews it serves—fully able to transport itself to any realm with a dash of magic powder and a hint of direction. Sometimes, it almost seems like the tavern has a mind of its own, popping up where you’d least expect it. And it’s all thanks to Freya.
Taverns have existed in the realms since primordial days, and some scholars have argued that the first tavern fossils predate the universe. Like any long-standing beast, however, Barheim has been plagued by more than its fair share of parasites. Yrsa may be at the top of anyone’s mind regarding lousy liquor, but she wasn’t the first and won’t be the last. Where there’s a coin to be made, there are corners to be cut, and even the most respected tavern owners are sometimes not above that.
Freya was a different sort than all the rest. She didn’t want to make any old watering hole where you’d escape the world and forget your troubles, she wanted to make the watering hole where you escape the world and forget your troubles! And not just by yourself like any sad fellow might, but instead in the company of mirth and friendship. Barheim was pure in both its founder’s virtues and its brews, and it helped that those brews were the good stuff. None of the foul cheaply produced swill that most bar owners passed around.
It’s incredible what an impact a single establishment can have. Sure, it helps that Barheim could hop around the realms like a mad rabbit after one too many mugs of mead, but folks took to it regardless. You could practically taste it in the brews themselves that Freya put her heart and soul into Barheim. Every time it passed into your realm, you’d race to reach its doors first, longing for the freshest sips from one of her taps.
Unfortunately, even the finest pint runs out eventually, as did the golden era of Barheim. While the establishment remained as glorious as ever, it faded into obscurity. It was halfway between reality and myth, as some could only recount to their children stories of the finest brews they’d ever had the privilege to sip.
That was when the problem child Yrsa reared her exceptionally ugly golden head. If Barheim challenged the flat ales of most other taverns, then Yrsa’s fizz never existed. It almost felt like overnight she filled everyone’s glasses with that foul, fermented slime that she tried to pass off as an honest pint. Anyone who tried to stand against her would be crushed under the heel of her lieutenants and generals—each enforcer drunk off a false sense of superiority… And cheaply produced mead.
Blanketed by the modesty of myth and history, Barheim now stands as the final fresh brew in a lineup of soured and poisoned concoctions left in Queen Yrsa’s wake. Only the finest barkeep may alter the miserable fate Yrsa seeks for the realms….