[center][h2][b][i][u]Mourning Mirrodin Tavern[/u][/i][/b][/h2][/center]

	The streets of Ravinca buzzed with the usual perpetual murmur of life. On a small mesa on the outskirt of the main city center, life was only a little less hectic. This mesa was an unaligned district that no guild claimed and was home to peaceful folk. The only truly noteworthy was part of this district was the nearly famous Mourning Mirrodin Tavern. Locals do not understand the name, but its name is like a lighthouse in the fog to wanderers of the Multiverse. The tavern is open all day and all night. During the day it is a calm meeting area for locals but as night approaches the usual night life creeps in and the fun begins.

	The Mourning Mirrodin Tavern is a multi-story building. The first two floors are available for entertainment with bar and food and usually a bard providing live music. The third floor contains many well-kept high class rooms for patrons to rent for a night. The locals do not spend the night often, but for those looking to spend time alone, or from across the city, enjoy these comfortable logging. The fourth floor is the private residence of the Tavern owner, Alexander Pax.

	The Mourning Mirrodin is known for good food and drink, honest deals, and always accepting of the strangest of individuals. Those looking for quick jobs with big rewards can be found frequenting a large bulletin board on the first floor managed by the tavern owner himself. One the first floor, there is a large stage for live performances and the main bar where Alexander can most often be found bartending. There is a large open area to allow for dancing and a few tables to rest and enjoy a good meal. The second story has a smaller bar with a smaller selection of beverages. The second floor has plenty of dining tables and secluded venues. There are two gambling tables up there. Across both floors a 3-inch layer of fog covers the floor and sometimes flows down the stairs. This only adds to the atmosphere of a friendly, dreamlike feel to the tavern. It is often a prank told to new patrons that one would get a reward if they ever located the fog machine the obviously must be generating the fog.

Now, the Mourning Mirrodin is not entirely what it seems. Some have speculated him linked with the Dimir guild for he seems to get information for the oddest and obscure jobs from across Ravinca. Some say that he has deep connections within the Orzhov guild as he often ignores extensive tabs to certain patrons. Guilds even post jobs and recruitment in the tavern aimed at the unaligned. Coins that fall on the floor are rarely ever recovered as if the fog immediately whisks it away. Ravinca is a very mixed place, but some of the patrons to this establishment are exceptionally abnormal. In truth, these are often planeswalkers from all over the multiverse, but planeswalkers are wholly unknown on Ravinca except for the more learned individuals.

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Now, this is where the tale of planeswalkers begins. Slowly growing in popularity, the name Mourning Mirrodin has attracted many planeswalkers. Here planeswalkers come, eat, plot, and plan. To what end and how their glancing and passing meetings will shape the multiverse, no soul can predict. The Mourning Mirrodin is always open, always accepting, and always neutral ground.

On the stage, a beautiful young human woman plays her small lyre. As she switches songs, she points her finger and swirls her wrist. Her hair changes from a deep brown to a bright green. Her long hair raises and ties itself into a big bun. Her dress also changes color from a warm red to a matching bright green. Her dress lengthens, growing from where its hem was mid-thigh to the floor. Her lyre changed to a small wooden guitar. The goblin drummer behind her on stage began to give a beat. The Elf next to him began to play his flute. Strumming her guitar, this young woman began to seen in beautiful common native to Theros. For the non-planeswalkers, her ballad could only be understood by the beautiful tones of her voice and the blue illusions that danced at her feet illustrating the legend of the first dog of Theros, a lonely wolf crying to the goddess of the Hunt for a new pack. That pack becoming the humans.

Alexander Pax was not once phased by the magic of his bard. He tended to the patrons at the bar and greeted all who entered the Taven.