Where Obsolete Gods Go To Drink
It is a tavern on the edge of a lopsided mountain. And since most have lost the ability to fly, or even levitate, if ever they had it to begin with, they walk the long bramble-studded path to the summit.
There are the usual stories of fear and trembling; offerings of fruit and dead virgins and slit-throat goats taken for granted. The good old days when you could spit on someone's head and they'd thank you for it.
The barmaid was once a goddess and every so often she smacks down a pint of ale and lightening cracks the glass and burns a hole through the bar, and everyone freezes mid-sentence, then laughs.
"There is always something left", one comments, taking out a deck of cards, fanning them face down.
"Here," he says, wizened in his robes. "Pick one".