BE7's The Ghosts of Saltmarsh

It seems as if your wagon has only been rolling along for a few moments before it comes to a stop again.

The Wicker Goat stands near the main gate like a ship run aground and left to become part of the village. Its weather-darkened walls are built almost entirely from reclaimed timber salvaged from wrecked merchant vessels, retired fishing boats, and the occasional unlucky pirate ship. Different shades of wood patch together across the exterior—oak, pine, and exotic hardwoods from distant ports—giving the building a mismatched but sturdy appearance. Old figureheads decorate the corners of the roofline, their faded faces watching the harbor through years of salt and storm.

The inn's broad front porch is supported by masts repurposed as pillars, while thick ship's ropes serve as railings. Brass lanterns hang from iron hooks once used to secure cargo. The smell of tar, seawater, and wood smoke lingers permanently in the air.

Inside, the common room is warm and practical rather than elegant. Massive beams overhead bear carved names of long-lost ships. Tables fashioned from hatch covers and deck planks are scarred by decades of tankards, dice games, and knife marks. Nets, floats, and old mining tools hang from the walls beside rusted anchors and faded naval pennants.

The clientele is a predictable mix of harbor guards, town watchmen, caravan escorts, and dwarven miners from the nearby hills. Guards gather near the entrance where they can keep an eye on newcomers, while miners claim the larger tables, sharing strong ale after long shifts underground. Conversations bounce between tales of cave-ins, monster sightings in abandoned shafts, smuggling rumors, and complaints about local officials.

Behind the bar stands a thick slab of polished ship timber supported by iron ore carts turned on their sides. The inn serves hearty fare designed to satisfy hungry laborers: fish stew thick with potatoes, smoked herring, black bread, roasted root vegetables, and dwarven meat pies heavy with mushrooms and gravy. The house specialty is Miner's Reserve Ale, a dark, malty brew strong enough that locals joke it can dissolve rust from an anchor chain.  Nobody enjoys this joke more than the proprietor Lankus Kurrid, a retired human officer of the Keoish army.  

Guest rooms are simple but comfortable. Former ship cabins have been rebuilt into small chambers with sturdy bunks, wool blankets, and brass portholes that now serve as windows. The walls creak softly during strong winds, giving visitors the feeling of sleeping aboard a vessel at sea.

A stable hand rushes out to take the reigns, offering a hand as you exit the wagon.  "Ye wants me fer unhitchin' her and settlin' her down fer the night, or will ye be riding out again today?"

As you discuss your plans, the gnome couple disappears into the building, each carrying a large basket of fresh vegetables.

Isa says, "Oh how I would love to get a bite to eat and dry out but I think we should see what the job is about before resting" She looks to the stable hand and says, "Can you tell me how to get to the Empty Net Tavern?" 

Milo looks around and breaths in the atmosphere. He seems eager to engage with the towns folk but Isa seems to have made her decision.
"If you deem it necessary then I am for it." He says to Isa. "but I'd wager there's a coin to capture among this lot. & I suspect the girls will be very popular, if I can gauge men properly." 
With that Milo will turn to the wagon again, ready to leave, however he sings a song as he does.
"there once was a farmer in ole Daggerdale that fell in love with a pig"
"He'd serenade her with snorts and oinks all the while dancin' a jig"
He sings loud enough for the patrons to hear but lets the song tail off as he leaves.

“Looks a little pricey,” says Joni, as she steps in, covering her hair with her hands and the back of her lyre’s case. She is tall for a woman, though not remarkably, and gangly with the tail-end of adolescence. Her big eyes take in the themed bar and its decor. “Lovely though. So dedicated to its theme, which does surprise me — if this is the Wicker Goat, how much more marine can the Empty Net or the Snapping Line be?”

Joni taps her fingers against themselves once inside to see for dryness then touches her midnight black hair, to see if the shoe polish that gives her her look is running. All is well. She nods to Milo. 

“I am happy to do either. We need more coin.”

Blush follows on the heels of Joni and as she enters the Wicker Goat she can't help but let out a low whistle while taking in it's overall ambiance.

"Welllll... since we're already here why not get a hot meal and a quick mug of ale? Maybe even ask a few questions about the Empty Net before heading over there."

After several days of rain Blush is eager for even a brief respite from the dreary weather.

"Forewarned is forearmed after all."

Isa says "I rather see what it is about first so we can plan over our meal. I feel that is what we should do first and who knows maybe the Empty Net Tavern has food just as good. Plus, the tavern can't be that far in this town"

Milo shrugs, pets the horse pulling the wagon.
"Sorry for this old sod, you'll get to rest soon." he says to the horse while petting it.
Milo climbs back up into the wagon. 

Joni holds the lure case over her head again as the horse wickers in complaint. “Maybe we can walk? If it’s not far?” The second question she directs to their new Gnomish acquaintances. 

The scrawny half elven lad pauses to brush his straw colored hair out of his eyes before motioning his head in the direction the road continues.  "The Net ain't fer bein' far, an easy 'nuff walk, an' downhill to boot!" he says with a grin.  "Keep right past da bridge.  She's on da water, can't miss it.  The Net's not fer havin' a stable.  Fer two silver I'll take good care of yer pony.  Ye'll even gets one back if ye stays here."  He extends a thin, grubby hand.  Despite the delicate build of his heritage, his hands are well calloused and his shoulders are broad.  The young man worked hard, but appeared healthy and well cared for.

Isa pays the 2 sp and starts walking briskly towards the Empty Net Tavern. 

Joni looks back at the half elf, puzzling out his speech with her own whispered repetitions even as she follows after Isa. 

Blush pulls the hood of her cloak up to guard against the rain and hurries after the others.

"Thank Tymora it isn't far!" 

The Empty Net Inn

Squatting on the edge of the harbor like a barnacle that refused to die, the Empty Net Inn leans precariously over the tidewater on a forest of weather-blackened pilings. Much of the structure appears to have been assembled from salvaged ship timbers, driftwood, and whatever scrap lumber could be found after storms. Salt-stained planks creak beneath every footstep, and sections of the porch sag alarmingly toward the water below.

At first glance, visitors might notice a resemblance to the more respectable Wicker Goat—a common room, a few guest chambers above, and a broad deck overlooking the harbor. Any similarity ends there.

The Empty Net is a place of neglect.

Its faded sign swings from rusted chains, the painted fish upon it nearly worn away by decades of sea wind. Shutters hang crooked on their hinges. Ropes, broken nets, and fishing floats are piled haphazardly against the walls. The smell of stale ale mingles with fish guts, mildew, pipe smoke, and the ever-present odor of the sea.

Inside, the common room is dim even during daylight. The windows are grimy with salt and dirt, allowing only pale shafts of light to penetrate the gloom. Water stains spread across the ceiling, and several buckets sit strategically beneath persistent leaks. The floorboards are warped from years of dampness, and patrons quickly learn which sections groan loud enough to announce their presence.

The furnishings have seen better decades. Tables are scarred by knives, stained by spilled drink, and uneven on the floor. Chairs wobble dangerously. A fire crackles in the hearth more from necessity than comfort, its smoke occasionally drifting into the room when the chimney decides not to cooperate.

Most evenings the clientele consists of weather-beaten fishermen fresh from disappointing catches, laborers too poor to drink elsewhere, and hard-eyed sailors whose ships may or may not actually exist. Mixed among them are smugglers, thieves, fences, and other unsavory figures who prefer not to be noticed. Conversations tend to stop when strangers enter, replaced by suspicious glances and muttered whispers.

The ale is weak, the food is questionable, and the rooms upstairs are little more than cramped boxes containing lumpy mattresses and threadbare blankets. Yet despite its shortcomings, the inn remains busy. In a town where information can be worth more than gold, the Empty Net is a place where rumors surface as reliably as the tide.

Behind the bar stands Kreb Shenker, the inn's proprietor. A wiry human with thinning greasy black hair and perpetually shifty eyes, Kreb seems to know everyone's business while revealing none of his own. His smile never reaches his eyes, and he has an unsettling habit of watching conversations while polishing the same mug for hours.

Kreb eyes you as you enter, absent mindedly wiping out mugs with a filthy rag.  "What'll it be?" he calls out as the door swings shut behind you.

***OoC:  I'll be out of town until Sunday. Feel free to RP and interact with Kreb.  I should be able to drop in a short post here or the on my phone, but lest active than usual.***