It's a cold winter's night, your breath fogging through your scarf as you trudge through the glistening powder towards the wooden building in the distance. The tavern sits, with it’s arched roof and raw timber walls, low in the piled snow, picturesquely framed by the winter-laden pine trees behind it. As you draw near, the scent of bread and fresh fire drift outwards, as if the brightly lit windows were pushing towards you their warmth. The shadows that drift by the light are piled high with furs or hats, warding off the clinging cold.

Reaching the doorway, the murmur of voices welcomes you, broken by a jovial laugh and the dull thump of mugs being brought together. It sounds as though the whole town is already here, filling their bellies with warmth and mead. You hope quietly to yourself that your favorite pipe-player will show this evening, gracing the atmosphere with her notes. The door itself is well crafted, and lovingly carved with intricate designs of Celtic dragons and fair maidens, telling the stories that had ling since been forgotten. Placing your hand on the well worn wood, you push, out of the cold night, and into the warm embrace of your friends.