It is under the strange gaze of a bas-relief that the drunks of the Fevers Tree tent village gather. A plank balanced between two masonry stumps and you find yourself in the only tavern in the vicinity. The stone eyes of a crowned snail stare without understanding at a whole assembly of drunkards, castaways, and self-proclaimed scholars who try to tame their fears and their malaise with copious amounts of improvised spirits.

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