The Tipped Quill doesn't look like much from the street - just another tavern with a creaking sign. Inside, the smell of spilled ale, sweat, puke, and tobacco smoke merge with hearty laughter, clinking tankards, and conversation.

The noticeboard beside the large fireplace is thick with scrawled notes - but that's for another visit.

"Pull up a stool," the barkeep says, wiping the bar with a grubby rag. "Your coin's no good here if you've got no tale to tell."

No one shouts in the Quill. They lean in. They listen. And sometimes, they leave with more than they came with - a rumor, a warning, or a new friend they'll never actually adventure with. That's the deal.