The Crooked Lantern is a modest but busy tavern tucked along one of GrayHaven’s older side streets, close enough to the market district to attract merchants and laborers, but far enough from the main thoroughfare that the City Guard rarely enters without a reason. Its sign depicts a brass lantern hanging noticeably sideways from a bent iron hook. Locals joke that the lantern has been crooked longer than anyone can remember.
Inside, the tavern is warm, dim, and crowded. Heavy wooden beams cross the ceiling, mismatched tables fill the common room, and several small booths have unusually high backs that offer patrons a little privacy. The food is simple but respectable: thick stew, dark bread, roasted onions, sausages, pickled vegetables, and whatever meat was inexpensive that morning. The ale is considerably better than the food.
A broad fireplace dominates one wall, while a long oak bar runs across the opposite side. Behind the bar are dozens of bottles, mugs, and small wooden boxes whose contents are supposedly herbs, spices, and tobacco.
Some of them are.
