[img]http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs47/f/2009/250/e/8/Fairy_Tavern_by_mlynnz.jpg[/img]

[center][b]The Boggart's Hole[/b][/center]

Within the whole of the Blight's barren expanse, one plant not classifiable as a weed or a man-eating abomination of magic, still grew. The gnarled oak, more ancient then the most wrinkled elven dame of the Greenlight, twisted up out of the dark confines of the slum, leafy boughs cresting just above the eroding brick tenements which flanked it on either side. Of course, the tainted magic which leached up through her roots did not leave her untouched. Granny Oak, as she was called affectionately by Blighters, did in fact bud the lobed foliage expected of her and dropped typical acorns which pixies and wisps both fought like squirrels to gather. However, occasionally an acorn would hatch a dove rather than a seedling and sometimes her leaves moved to catch the dim smog-filtered sunlight even when the air was still. Her eccentricities, however, only made the Blight fae love her more. She was one of them. She was a mess. She was Granny Oak.

Although Granny's boughs and trunk boasted their own cacophony of life, wisps lighting her canopy like solstice lights and pixies assembled like bees in her rotted hollows, most fae knew her for what lied under, cradled by her roots like a precious possession. The Bogart's Hole, the watering hole of the Blight. Although the ghetto boasted dozens of bars where fae could loose themselves in the green depths of pixie sap, the bluish haze of elf wine and the hearty foam of dwarven ale, many of those bars stood in the Greenlight where they catered to human wretches as well as fae. Most of the others were court affiliated, Unseelie pubs where a Seelie would soon find an iron dagger in their back or Seelie saloons where snobbish bouncers stopped 'riff-raff' at the door. Only the Boggart's Hole remained neutral, serving forgetfulness to noble alfar and lowly goblins alike. 

To reach the Hole, one did not pass bulging troll bouncers or submit to searches. The Hole was under Granny. It was part of her, the massive roots twisting to form its roof and everyone respected Granny. Fighting in the Hole would be akin to breaking an oath sworn upon a true name. In fact, there wasn't even a door. The Boggart's Hole never closed so it didn't need one. Instead, an earthen hole opened up like a rabbit's den in the cracked sidewalk beneath the tree's shadow. Following the rough tunnel through a couple erratic twists and turns, patrons eventually exited through the arching expanse of a great root and into a domed warren. Soft purple light from burning mana lamps plus the glow of the occasional floating wisp lit the dark interior of the hole, flashing upon the countless bottles lining the shelf behind the bar. Practically always in a state of pandemonium, the customers formed a tumultuous motley of every faery race imprisoned in the hell of the Blight, from noble elves to common gnomes and even more common pixies. Attempting to impose order on this riotous crowd were the Hole's pixie staff. Mostly denizens of the colony in Granny's trunk far above, they buzzed here and there carrying trays of food and mugs above their blurred wings. At the center of all this chaos stood (or sprinted) the old girl herself. Mostly they just called her Auntie or sometimes Auntie Boggart. Truth was no one knew her common name, not to speak of her true name. A breed of gnome, sometimes called a Dirt Gnome or Boggart, her people had once dug vast, complex warrens beneath the regions forest floors. Few remained for they'd not adapted well to the concrete ground of the Blight. One of the last of her kind, Aunty's work kept her too busy for melancholy. Employing her wyrding glamer, a gift of all gnomes but a particular talent in her case, she flitted here and there along the bar and across the floor like a pudgy, wrinkled bolt of lightning, serving her famous mixed drinks practically before their imbibers could order them.

As mentioned, all considered the Boggart's Hole neutral ground, but oaths could be broken, even unspoken ones. Auntie, well aware of the imperfections of man and faery, made sure to keep a deterrent close at hand. This deterrent came in the form of Grodgar. Grodgar was a troll, Grodgar was a very large troll. Usually seen hulking over an ale large enough to serve as a pixie swimming pool, Grogar looked out through a face scarred and bent by a life of violence. Filling up an entire corner of the tavern from floor to roof, he monitored the clientele with lazy eyes, knowing that a faery had to be double the fool to break the unspoken oath under his watch and few fools of such a magnitude existed. If Grogdar's mass wasn't intimidating enough, his horns spoke of his own notorious history. The right one broke during his final official bout, the last fight of an undefeated career in the Ogre Pen, most brutal of the underground cage matches. In truth, though, no one knew much about Grogdar apart than his talent for ripping things in half, his love of dwarven mead, and his fondness for pixies. The massive fae was often covered with swarms of them, dancing along his horns and splashing in his mug all without eliciting the faintest hint of annoyance from the mountainous creature. Sometimes patrons even caught sight of the troll using his huge thumb to mock waltz with pixie maids upon his ale stained table. No one mentioned it.

For decades the Boggart's Hole had remained a place of peace (albeit an occasionally rowdy peace), keeping its distance from the Iron Police, both courts and the wyldings, but even Auntie wondered sometimes, between washing glasses, mopping floors and mixing liquors whether it could remain so forever; whether the crime and violence rampant in the slums beyond would eventually worm their way into the Blight's last true sanctum.