Nightfall descends and, with it, a revelry in the flying piglet.
Cheery music livens the atmosphere, an upbeat convergence of stringed instruments, the jingles of tambourines, the ethereal shrill of flutes with a strong percussion of drums all the way through.
It is a wonder that the alehouse survived. The only proof of its devastation is the one sidewall, blackened by streaks like the outline of a column of flames, flakes of charred wood peeling away like dead skin. A relentless smell of ash lingers in the air. The alehouse swarms with rowdy masses, almost all of them holding tankards of ale, most of it spilling to the floor.
All the square shaped tables that can accompany four people are arranged throughout the interior. Close to a blazing fire pit, the ensemble of tavern musicians strum their instruments, cultivating the jovial ambiance.
