The Desolate Plains of Nocturna has long been a silent witness to the ebb and flow of hope and despair. Originally established as a modest way station and public house, it became a hub where weary travelers exchanged both weary tales and dreams over goblets of sour ale. Over time, however, the steady stream of visitors waned, and the once lively pub became a relic—a somber monument to forgotten ambitions.

Legends intertwine with the establishment’s history; its name is said to derive from an ancestral brewer famed for creating an ale so potent that those who imbibed it could momentarily ignore the bleakness of their surroundings. As the traffic across the desolate expanse diminished, the stories too grew sparse, and events once filled with exuberance and fateful adventures became whispers lost in the pervasive silence. Today, the Desolate Plains endures as both a reminder of bygone glory and as a melancholic tribute to the passage of time.