The Drowned Gull

The tavern is built into the canted hull of the Gray Cormorant, a smuggler's brig that ran aground three decades ago and never left. The floor slopes toward the river-side bow, so tankards slide slowly across tables if you don't mind them, and the whole structure groans like it's still afloat when the wind pulls at the reeds outside. Lanterns hang from old rigging hooks, throwing greasy amber light through a permanent haze of pipe smoke and burnt tallow. Conversations happen in low murmurs; when the door creaks open, every head turns just enough to check, then turns back. Water laps audibly beneath the floorboards during high tide, and somewhere below, chains clink against something that isn't cargo anymore.