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Imagine a place,and another place; and a place between them. Now imagine a place between all places - somewhere between here and there, real and unreal, truth and lies.

A place where you can get a good meal and a better drink in peace, and meet absolutely anyone from absolutely anywhere.

Such is the Inn of the World Serpent.

On a night like any other - inasmuch as such a phrase is relevant in a place which exists in all places and times at once - the barman of the Inn, Mitchifer, was polishing a glass and smiling. This in itself was nothing unusual; no-one had ever seen Mitchifer when he wasn't smiling. Basically human in form, Mitchifer was tall and round, with a jolly face and white hair. His white beard, although looking ordinary enough, was in fact made of thousands of tiny white tendrils. Many of the inn's regulars had theories about who - or what - Mitchifer was. He himself never commented.

On this particular evening, Mitchifer looked up as the heavy doors opened. Given that these doors opened into every place there was, it was unusual for Mitchifer to be in the least surprised by what appeared, but in this case, he treated the three who walked in to a raised eyebrow.

The one on the extreme left was tall - very tall - for a human, which was what he appeared to be. Heavy-shouldered and muscular, he walked lightly despite the heavy black-and-gold armour he wore. The hilt of a sword jutted up from each hip. One was intricately shaped from a pale metal that somehow resembled bone; the other was an ominous flat grey colour, despite which it radiated an obscure sense of menace. An oversized, capped leather quiver was strapped to his back, though he carried no bow. Over his armour, he wore a sort of sleeveless red over-robe, dotted all over with embroidered eyes of different colours. These moved occasionally, giving a distinct impression of life and perception. A thick, rich black cloak with
a wine-red lining was thrown over all, secured by a golden brooch with red and green gemstones. The warrior's long, dark brown hair touched his shoulders, and a matching bushy moustache decorated his face, highlighting the broad smile that had appeared at the sight of the bar. His eyes, though, were always in shadow, wherever the light happened to be.

Next to him was a black-bearded dwarf, just over four feet tall, and quite young for his kind - probably less than a hundred. Like the human, he was encased in armour of jointed and overlapping metal plates, although his was of a more normal steel. Slung over his shoulder was one of the biggest great-axes Mitchifer had ever seen; but simple size was not what made it remarkable; it was the fact that it was constructed of what appeared to be pale blue, slightly glowing glass. A light targe was slung at his hip, balancing a small hammer made of a black metal similar to that of his human companion's armour. A travel-worn and rather plain prayer-hammer was worn around his neck, proclaiming him either a devout follower or (probably) a priest of the god Kord. A short red cape hung from his shoulders, secured by a brooch identical to the one worn by the warrior. He appeared to be carrying on a one-sided verbal argument with the man next to him, who was responding in a complex and rapid sign language.

The silent member of the group was tall, though not as tall as the armoured human, and rather slimmer. He looked human, although subtle clues suggested that there was something else in his ancestry. He moved with a trained grace that made no sound, always balanced for sudden movement. His armour was not metal, but a peculiar shape-fitting suit of some dull-surfaced material in panels of black and brown. Even in the Inn - where the unseen seldom remained so - it blurred his outline slightly, and Mitchifer judged that were he elsewhere, he would be difficult to see at all. A heavy-bladed sword half again the normal length was scabbarded at his right hip - probably indicating a left-hander - with a shorter weapon, partway between a dagger and a shortsword, on his right. A massive longbow, extremely thick in the stave, was slung unstrung across his back, crossed by a quiver of arrows of various designs. Around his neck was a broad torc of silver - an affectation common among vampire hunters - and dangling from his belt, an old and battered-looking brass helmet, rather at odds with the rest of his well-kept equipment. He, too, had the same red-and-green bejewelled brooch, in his case pinned to a fine, flowing cloak with much the same properties as the armour; some form of concealment. His hair was short and jet-black, and a dangerous grin danced across his face.

The barman put down his glass and polishing cloth. Tonight, he thought, was going to be interesting.