A fire crackles in the hearth. The common room smells of old wood, root stew, and something baking. Behind the counter, a woman wipes a glass. She looks up as you enter.

"Evening," she greets you. "Mira Thorne. I run this place."

She gestures vaguely toward the ceiling. "Got a scribe upstairs. Room at the end of the hall. Keeps to himself - writes mostly. Don't like loud noises or bright light, he don't." She shrugs. "He pays on time, so I ask no questions."

She nods toward the stairs. "If you're looking for him, good luck. He's not much for company. Tea's warm, though, if you're staying." She pauses. "Oh, and there's a cat up there. Black one. Don't try to pet her. She just watches."

She sets the glass down and adds, almost as an afterthought: "We serve meals with tea - no spirits. If you want a drink, the tavern's two doors down. I keep this place quiet." A faint smile. "That's why the scribe stays."