In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around the east end of Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.

In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, in a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around the east end of Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.

4802

In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, in a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around the east end of Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.

Much, much later

In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, in a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around the east end of Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.

4802

In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, in a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around the east end of Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.

4802

In a district of Axis well beyond the zone that deliberately caters to mortal tourists, but still barely within the area from which people are permitted to return to the Material Plane, in a neighborhood still mostly made up of recent immigrants from the Inner Sea region of Golarion, there is a little restaurant. The interior is luxuriously but not ostentatiously appointed, all rich carpets and leather upholstery, the sort of décor that one might imagine in the house of a rich man who actually wanted to be comfortable rather than show off his wealth—a retired adventurer, perhaps, or a criminal king, not that those are entirely distinct things in any city, even this one. The cuisine served is that of Absalom, itself drawn from half a dozen cultures around Golarion’s Inner Sea, though no one goes there for the food. There are, in fact, no customers at the moment. There are never any customers, which is how you know that this place isn’t what it seems. It’s meant to be hidden, from the thousands of people who live their ordinary lives on this street; it isn’t meant to be hard to find. Not for the sort of person who would ever go there willingly.