Location: Westcrown map location #49 – Rego Crua (“Blood Sector”) on the Wharf

Description: A sprawling complex, cobbled together from several surrounding buildings, some thirty yards from the Westchannel and an old lonely pier whose best days have long since passed. These buildings, a couple literally leaning on the inn, have been crudely patchworked together in an almost maddening maze of doors, uneven hallways, secret passages, twisted stairs and short bridges. Some doors open into midair three stories above the ground, while others are unable to be unlocked. The ramshackle inn is four stories tall at its highest point but mostly stands only two high. The entire building looks as if it should have collapsed years ago but somehow still manages to stand strong. Many rumors are whispered regarding the strangeness of the inn and more than one traveler staying at the inn has run away screaming into the night despite its dangers or disappeared from his bed without a trace.

The entrance is a twinned pair of oversized doors, one charred black from fire and the other an ordinary affair save the single arcane sigil engraved into its center which has to this day defied all definition. The front is crowned with a large hanging sign depicting a bed, plate and a frothy tankard; very standard signage for an inn and tavern. Hanging below this stereotypical sign is another that crudely depicts a falling man; above him is a ladder just out of reach and below is a black pit. The man reaches for a hissing serpent, his last chance to arrest the fall. What little of the yellow and blue paint that remains on the signs is cracked and peeling. Upon entering the tavern proper, one is struck by the size of it. Two long-tables run perpendicular to the door. Each could easily seat twenty men to a side with room to spare. At least two dozen separate tables of varying shapes and sizes litter the room in a haphazard manner each seating between three and six men. Support beams are placed in a similar manner. Each is numbered in the scripts of a half-dozen languages and has a different scene from a different story, all bizarre and none easily identifiable, engraved spirally around its circumference. The tavern always seems to be at least a third full at any given time. The scents of pungent herbs and even more pungent men, along with hints of ale, mead and beer are everywhere carried by the thin haze of smoke from a score of sundry weeds smoked by at least half the patrons.

The patrons are another matter entirely. They, along with the inn’s ruined appearance, help the Last Resort live up to its name. The inn is known as a haven for crews looking to get famous in order to secure patronage and for those seeking to hire or cajole said crews into work but these are far from the majority. Others include the desperate, con men looking to ply their trade, killers, those on the run looking for a good place to lay low, laborers, those wishing to meet discretely, slavers looking for a good time, and various other folk. Sometimes even a respectable person or two manages to stumble into the inn’s open arms. Racially the inn is about as diverse as you are likely to find in all of Cheliax. Humans are predominant but they rub elbows, and introduce faces to fists, with elves, dwarves, halfings, gnomes and tieflings. Less common folk such as half-elves, half-orcs and the occasional gillman sometimes sit down for a mug of Frothly, one of several signature beverages brewed by Brethic and his apprentice.

Some of the other patrons, and even employees, are well known, at least among the regulars. Nympym, a bucktoothed goblin admired for his ability to whistle songs more beautifully than some birds, works as a Fixit, trying to keep the place in some semblance of working order. It’s rumored that he was born in Alkenstar and apprenticed under the great Bonner Felsmoke himself but most laugh this off as a joke. There is a fetchling called Creeper, often found sitting within an oversized robe of unknown make at a table in the darkest corner of the tavern, who is whispered to be able to take one anywhere one wishes to go, for a steep price. Coltus Dalro, an old Chelishman retired from long years serving first in the Queen’s army and then in the Dottari. He’ll talk to anyone who’ll buy him another ale, or is at least good at pretending to pay attention. When he’s had one too many, he hints that he knows where all the bodies are buried. Zathen Arinae, a half-elf gamesmaster with an easy smile, quick eye and even quicker hands who, by some agreement that no one seems to know much about, is allowed to run the gambling den off of the “Gallow’s Path” as the bar-side hallway is known. Meander Fairweather, a female Mongrelman a bar wench and maid concerned with cleaning up after the dirty louts in the tavern. She is known to have training in herbs and the healing arts and, some say, darker things like poisons and disease harvesting. Finally, there is Madame Synri, referred to as the “Chamberlain of the Red Doors” or simply “the Chamberlain” by the coy, who runs the house of ill repute, found at the end of the “Pauper’s Path”, the hallway opposite the bar. It’s said that the Madame, a Varisian of keen wit and stunning beauty marred only by the forlorn and haunted look in her eyes, knows the happenings of everything that shouldn’t be known in the city. An excellent conversationalist and chess player, rumor has it that she will trade information for information but one must offer theirs first. The only thing she will not speak of is anything to do with her people and even the mere mention of them in her presence is said to bring tears to her eyes.

The bar proper is on the left as you walk into tavern, its dim light mainly comes from the dozen or so oil lamps hung sporadically throughout, their flames meekly struggling to bring some measure of relief to the darkness. Behind it Brenthic Keeper is usually found. He and his wife, Maudra, have been the proprietors of this seedy establishment for as long as anyone cares to remember. They are human, mid-fifties, very tall and as ugly as they come. Rude patrons joke that they must be the bastard siblings of some poor wench who was on the receiving end of a horny Troll. Regardless of their appearance, each seems very loyal and protective of the other and, most importantly for many patrons, has a soft spot for poor souls down on their luck. They are stern but kind, brooking no nonsense but often bringing extra to the table of a needy patron. The rooms are up the first stairs on the left after you enter the ‘Liar’s Path’, which is on the wall opposite the entrance. On the right-hand wall when entering is the “Hell Hearth”, so called by the regulars due both to its large size and correspondingly large fire and the deeply gouged and misshapen letters that scrawl “This is hell” across the rough gray mortar and rust-colored fieldstones. Finding anything else in his maze of an inn takes either luck or a guide.

There’s a saying that the regulars have about the Last Resort, “The only thing worse than walking into the Last, is knowing you can’t walk out.” Of course, sometimes the last resort is the one that works. Perhaps that is why people keep coming back for more.