Ravenbreath

The Driftwood Den: Come for the food and stay for the play at the den o’ depravity.

Hammered into the blackened cliffs above the crashing tide, The Driftwood Den is equal parts tavern, galley, and confession booth—though no one’s confessing anything you’d repeat. Its walls are patched with wreckwood and sailcloth, its floorboards slick with seafoam and spilled drink. The lanterns swing with the tide, and the laughter never stops—except when it does, suddenly, like a knife slipped between ribs.

The smell? Smoke, sweat, roast pig, and old grog. The patrons? Livers of iron, hands full of blisters, and mouths full of curses. This isn’t a place to ask questions unless you're already ready to answer some.

But if you need information—real information, the kind dredged from shipwrecks or stolen from bloodied lips—this is where it waits. Buried in bar bets and ballads, told only to those bold enough to listen and drunk enough to believe.

No one leaves clean. Some don’t leave at all.