Helcral’s Distillery
The low ceilings, benches, and tables prioritize the distillery’s primary clientele: fellow dwarves with parched throats. The walls and furniture are carved directly from mountain stone in this cavern turned taproom. Even the bar is a long slab of gray stone, inlaid with steely blue and golden filigree in sharp, geometric patterns. The fires from the sconces burn bright, the orange flamelight dancing along the walls, bouncing off the sweat-shined faces of the patrons. The gregarious owner holds up a platter with six frothing tankards, his smile wide and gapped within his full auburn beard. He laughs uproariously at one of the packed tables, customers licking their chapped lips in anticipation. Meanwhile, his wife stands near one of their stills, the copper exterior bright as a new button. She chews her thumbnail, her ink-stained fingers transferring some of the color onto her teeth.
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