Taverns

The taverns pulse with the rough energy of the Doge’s advanced riders, their low-beamed ceilings blackened by decades of pipe smoke and spilled wine. Tall wooden tables crowd the flagstone floors, their surfaces sticky with ale and the grime of hurried meals, while a single spluttering lantern hangs over each cluster of drinkers. The riders’ laughter mixes with the clink of tankards and the rasp of chairs dragged across rough wood, their boots leaving muddy imprints on the sawdust scattered between clusters of cloaked figures. Woodsmoke curls around the hearths, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and unwashed wool in the air, thick enough to taste. Shadows pull tight in the corners where low benches line the walls, and the flicker of firelight reveals the riders’ weapons—daggers and scabbards—glinting as they lean forward, sharing stories of pursuit and power. The noise never fades, but beneath it lingers the quiet tension of men who have just tasted victory and are unwilling to let the night end without celebrating.