DC 2025, Friday Night Intro.

The Evening of April 1st, 1553

The Moody Badger Tavern thrummed with life as dusk gave way to night, its oaken beams and glowing hearth reflecting the murmur and laughter of a crowd larger than any in recent weeks. The great doors swung open again and again, each time admitting strangers in travel-worn cloaks and bright-eyed wanderers whose accents carried the cadence of faraway lands. Faces unfamiliar mixed easily with those who had long been friends of the tavern, and the common air was one of eager curiosity and celebration.

Conversation rippled through the hall, each table alive with its own tale. Much of it turned toward the shadows of the Order of Gabriel, whispered in tones that grew grave when the symbol of the winged cross and rose was mentioned. Yet no sooner did the talk grow dark than it lifted again to brighter matters—voices swelling with pride at the vision of a New Avalon, a dream where all the Isles of Britannia bent under one throne. That dream seemed closer than ever, and the mention of it was often paired with tankards raised and hearty toasts shouted across the room.

Among the gathering, refugees newly arrived from the turmoil of Europe huddled in corners and found welcome in the warmth of the hearth. Their clothes were plain, their eyes weary, but the cheer of Avalon’s folk and the promise of safe passage under King Edward’s protection loosened their shoulders. For many, this was the first night in months where the air did not reek of smoke and fear, but of roasted meats, baked bread, and spiced wine.

The kitchens worked at a furious pace. Spirit-bound servers wove between tables, arms laden with trencher platters overflowing with roasted goose, venison in peppered gravy, stewed leeks with saffron, and pies brimming with fish and herbs. The cooks behind the bar could be heard shouting above the din, their voices half-drowned by the laughter of patrons demanding second helpings before their first plates were clean.

Every few moments, someone leaned close to their companions and whispered the same tantalizing rumor: “The King may come tonight.” King Edward VI, young but already the heart of Avalon’s future, was said to be considering a visit to the tavern to honor the marriage contract of his son, the boy-prince Henry, to Mary Stuart of Scotland. The thought alone electrified the crowd. Patrons craned their necks toward the door whenever it creaked, and a cheer seemed ready to erupt at the first sight of a royal mantle.

Music spilled across the room, strings and pipes blending with the hum of conversation. The Badger’s stage was alive with a mix of performers—refugees eager to earn coin, traveling musicians sharing songs of their homeland, and even a few Prodigals offering ballads in strange tongues. Between the music, the scents of feasting, and the heady swirl of rumor, the Moody Badger Tavern was more than a tavern tonight: it was Avalon itself in miniature, full of hope, fear, and a hunger for what the morrow might bring.