Welcome to the Boer’s Head Pub
Where tales steep in shadow, and memory haunts the stew.
The Boer’s Head is not located anywhere, not in the sense a map would understand. It stands in the narrow hinge between a choice and its consequence. A place you reach when the weight of regret becomes so large it folds space inward like wet fabric.
It is a space between breaths, between remembering and forgetting. Between the waking world… and whatever watches from beneath it.
The doors appear only when they’re needed, but not always when they’re wanted.
You didn’t come here by accident.
Whether by blood-red thread, desperate wish, or something darker, you found the door behind the bar, the one we never speak of. The one that sometimes opens on its own.
Now that you’re here, sit by the fire. Warm your hands. The barkeep has stories to share, stories soaked in ink, steeped in sorrow, and sometimes whispered by things with too many teeth.
New here? Start with a tale below.
Or open the cellar door, if you dare to dig deeper.
Tales from the Boer’s Head 