Nestled near the edge of the timber palisade in Stenwall, The Rattle & Drum is where frostbitten axe-hands, buffalo riders, and wandering gun-slingers come to wet their throats and swap tall tales. Built low and long from pine logs blackened by wind and soot, the tavern has a sod roof crawling with prairie moss and a creaky front porch scarred by boot heels and blood.
Its name comes from two things: the old war-drum mounted above the hearth, once beaten to signal raids across the fjords; and the constant rattle of tankards, dice, and boots on floorboards whenever the room comes alive—which is most nights.
Inside, the lighting is low and warm, a mix of lanterns, firelight, and the occasional flicker of a rune-marked charm nailed above the bar. A pair of longhouses back home might’ve birthed the place, but the Rattle & Drum has learned frontier ways. Bison jerky hangs next to smoked salmon; horn mugs sit beside shot glasses. Mead still flows, but so does rotgut whiskey brewed by a half-mad alchemist in the nearby hills.
Brynja Hrafnsdottir runs the place, a one-eyed shield-maiden-turned-barkeep with a silver wolf brooch at her throat and a lever-action rune-carved shotgun beneath the bar. She doesn’t talk much about her raiding days, but when she raises that old war-drumstick and slams it on the counter, folks know it's time to settle up or settle down.
Locals claim the tavern’s back room is warded by runes older than the gods, and that ghost-lights flicker in the rafters when someone lies in the main hall. Most shrug it off—until the liar gets dragged out into the snow by something unseen.
A favourite haunt of Norse scouts, hired guns, and a few wandering mystics, the Rattle & Drum is where you go if you need a mercenary, a story, or a drink strong enough to melt the frost off your beard.