“The Roadkill Tavern?” Wendell called back, huffing.

As the two men approached Sanctuary’s marketplace, Chuck darted between two of the larger buildings. It was early morning yet and none of the shops were open for the inhabitants to notice their odd behavior. The echo of the mägo’s voice sailed back, “It’s the only place I can think of to take you.”

Not that Wendell minded, of course. The Roadkill Tavern had some of the best food and drink he’d ever tasted. Not just on this world, but even back on Earth.

“I thought you lost your gate key?” Wendell turned the corner and stopped short. Half a dozen side alleys stood before him….with no sign of the gnome.

“I did!” boomed the echo. “Hurry up, will you—I can’t do this on my own!”

Second turn to the right and Wendell found Chuck trying to shift a stack of crates without much success.

“Well come on,” he grunted, heaving, “—help me move ‘em!”

Stray pieces of wood, a small stack of stones and a dozen or more medium sized wooden crates were neatly stacked into a corner of the whitewashed building. Wendell stood there and stared blankly.

“Uhhhh, why exactly are we moving crates?”

Chuck stopped, huffing with exertion. He let his head thump lightly against a crate. “With all the things I’ve shown you, do I really have to explain myself right now?”

Wendell shifted uncomfortably, “Well,…no.”

“Good,” he huffed, “then clamp your lips and start moving this junk!”

A few minutes and a trickle of sweat later, Wendell found himself scratching his head.

The morning light frolicked across the black iron hardware of the giant wooden door. A door which looked unnatural within its surroundings. Nailed to its center, was a dried and cured boars head with tusks protruding from its mouth. At least Wendell thought it was a boars head. The gaping eye sockets of the pig-like creature stared at him, challenging Wendell to enter.

“Is that?” he mumbled.

“Yup,” Chuck grinned, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe. “Come on.”

With a grunt and firm shove, the door creaked and opened up into darkness.

Chuck waddled in, scooping his beard back into his arms as he went, but Wendell hesitated.

This can’t be possible. Already he could smell the butter and herbs in the air. Okay, maybe it can, but…there soooo much about this place that just doesn’t make any sense? He inched his way into the doorway.

“You coming?”

“Working on it.”

“Work on it FASTER, son,” Chuck snapped, reaching out and tugging on Wendell’s sleeve. “Let’s GO. Chop! Chop!” Kicking the door shut, the hallway plummeted into blackness.

Wendell’s arms shot out from his sides. “I can’t see!”

“Oh you whiner, you’re fine. Just walk towards the light. Not that I would usually recommend that, but in a non-death circumstance, you’re safe. One-two, there you go, one foot in front of the other…that’s it.”

The further they walked the brighter it got. It was a dim glow, mind you, coming from the end of the hallway, but it was enough to avoid bumping into walls.

Wendell reached for the doorknob and received a quick slap on the back of his hand.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Not that door!”

Wendell squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust. The massive wooden door had a plaque fixed to the center of its surface. It read: ALL WHO ENTER MUST LEAVE THEIR WORLD BEHIND.

“What in the…?”

Chuck tugged him towards a second door. “That room belongs to the Tavern’s oldest tenant. An emotional sort. Writer. Best to stay clear of him, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when working.” Leaning a bit closer, he whispered, “And frankly, the guy scares me, just a bit.”

Wendell backed away and opened the second door instead.

Light flooded the hall.

Shouting, chants and odd rounds of sing-a-long attempts exploded through the entryway, while the full sensory overload of food, drink and pipe tobacco jumped into each new breath.

Wendell stood frozen for a moment, closing his eyes and soaking it all in.

All at once, he let out a sigh of relief.

Muuuuch better.

“You go find us a table, son and I’ll go find one of the ladies to take our order.”

Wendell stepped down into the Great Hall, and Chuck abruptly grabbed his sleeve. “Give me a few minutes as well…I have some business with the owner.”

Nodding, “Not a problem.” I’m not in any rush to get back.

Chuck flipped the mass of his beard over one shoulder, wandering towards the bar, waving at patrons as he went.

You’re a popular old fart, Wendell smirked, but it got him thinking, How many people do you actually know?

The Great Hall was packed wall to wall, which wasn’t a surprise. Wendell had only been here a couple times, and there was something about the place that called to him. Something that made him want to come back. Of course, the food was second to none and the drinks, well…Wendell wasn’t a drinker, so he just took Chuck and Dax’s word on that.

Well this was simple enough, he grinned. Pop open a door, down a hall and into the Roadkill, completely bypassing Gypsy security!

Striding across the room, Wendell made towards the front door of the tavern.

Gotta have a quick peek outside.

The Black Market was the most fascinating place Wendell had ever visited. The collections of cultures, the wild and oftentimes disturbing foods, magical items, rare animals, the finest weapons and armor money could buy…all in an underground cavern that no one knew the location of.

Yet the Black Market was a thriving subculture, because necessity made it all work.

Wendell followed behind a large party of drunken dwarves, struggling to make it out of the tavern on their own feet. Deep songs of the North Mountains rumbled in their chests as long beards woven with metal and gems clanked against breastplates.

Whew! Wendell waved his hand in front of his nose, Did you leave any alcohol for the rest of the tavern? Goodness you boys smell strong!

One by one they rounded the corner until…

What the…?

Wendell came to a screeching halt.

Where did…the door go? Reaching out the the wall in front of him, his fingers traced the wood. All Wendell could see or feel was a thick log wall, just like the rest of the tavern.

There was no door, no windows, no dwarves.

“There’s supposed to be a door…right here,” he reminded himself.

You’re not crazy, Wendell. This is the way you came in the last couple times.

He poked his head around the corner, staring at the rest of the Great Hall, but no one paid him any particular attention.

Leaning against the logs with his shoulder, Wendell gave the structure a little nudge.

Nothing happened.

With a grunt and feet planted squarely on the floor, he pushed harder.

No, no, no—I came through this way…and those Kutollum, or dwarves—they just disappeared!

Stepping back, Wendell bit his upper lip and nodded to himself.

Stay calm, Wendell. Breathe. It’s been a long week, you’ve been abused and mentally manipulated.

You’re not crazy.

There’s a perfectly logical explanation to this.