The Griffin Tavern sits at the intersection of Merchant Quarter and Noble’s Rest, its timber frame darkened by decades of pipe smoke and its glossy windows glow warmly against evening fog. Above the door is a perched stone griffin, with one ruby eye missing. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of spiced ale, roasting meat, and vague smells of vomit stains from customers who indulge more than they should.
The common room features mismatched furniture accumulated over generations: scarred oak tables, chairs ranging from simple stools to an inexplicably ornate velvet armchair (claimed nightly by whoever arrives first), and a massive stone fireplace that dominates the eastern wall. Behind the polished mahogany bar, bottles of every hue catch the firelight, and a peculiar enchanted tankard occasionally refills itself, with a new cheap drink every time.