Two hours after nightfall, the town was in the midst of its liveliest golden hour.
Inside a two-story stone building with black smoke billowing from its chimney, the place was packed. People kept pushing open the wooden door with its earsplitting squeak, coming and going and carrying the tavern's din out into the street.
"You should've seen it. Even though I dropped my weapon, I just spun around and slapped that kobold's head clean off!" The half-orc warrior pounded the wooden table as he bragged about his strength to the others seated with him, spittle spraying beneath the oil lamp.
The clamor of knocked-over tankards, the boisterous shouts of people playing drinking games, and the servers carrying trays and loudly calling for customers to make way.
The drunkards' mutterings, hoarse off-key singing, heated arguments, and hushed plotting swirled together overhead, forming a noisy yet inexplicably harmonious background hum.
In a corner, the bard's strings stubbornly struggled to be heard over the crowd.
The strong, slightly sour scent of ale hung in the air, mixed with the aroma of grilled sausages and roasted meat. It whetted everyone's appetite and left them feeling tipsy amid the alcohol-laden air.
The Night Owl Squad had gathered in the tavern. The oil lamps in the wall niches cast a warm yellow glow across their faces.
Seated on wooden chairs, chins propped in their hands as they took in the tavern, they all wore rare expressions of ease and relaxation.
Adventurers might find the noisy atmosphere of a tavern strange the first time they visited one, but after a few visits, they would soon unwind amid its rough, genuine bustle.
A bunch of low-ranking adventurers who lived by the sword gathered together, numbing themselves with alcohol and good food. It wasn't dignified or elegant; it was