The Ramshackle stands at the southern edge of the docks, its sagging wooden frame a grim reminder of a bygone era when it was the heart of local hospitality. Its once-proud facade now shows signs of rot and neglect, with sections of the roof caving in and large, jagged gaps in the walls where shingles have fallen away.

The exterior is a mottled mix of gray, peeling paint and weathered wood, giving it an air of decay and abandonment. The once-bustling porch is now eerily quiet, with old rocking chairs left to weather in place, their wicker seats worn and cracked. The overgrown path leading up to the front door is often obscured by weeds and brambles, and the windows—once bright and welcoming—are now grimy and shuttered, some cracked, others completely covered in layers of dust and grime. Despite its derelict state, there’s still a faint air of the building’s former grandeur, especially in the sturdy wooden beams that support the structure and the intricate carvings on the front door, now partially obscured by rot and moss.

The Lucky Liar is a rowdy, dimly lit tavern nestled near the edge of the docks, where fishers, woodcutters, and the occasional traveler gather to share a drink and spin outlandish tales. The heavy wooden beams overhead groan under the weight of decades of use, their dark surfaces polished by the smoke and grime of countless hearths. The scent of stew and the faint musk of fish clings to the clothes of the regulars. The tavern is sparsely decorated, with several large tables surrounded by mismatched chairs, their surfaces etched with years of carvings, some crude, some intricate.

A large stone fireplace crackles on one side of the room, casting flickering light on the faces of patrons who lean in close, their voices low and conspiratorial as they recount tales of creatures seen beneath the ice, hidden treasure, or daring feats of survival. The air is thick with laughter and the clink of tankards. The walls are adorned with weathered paintings, mostly depicting scenes of fishing or lumbering, but one or two feature strange and unsettling landscapes of dark forests or distant mountains, their meanings known only to those who pay attention.

Behind the bar stands Danae Xotal, a striking woman with raven-black hair and an air of quiet calculation. She moves with a practiced grace, her dark eyes flicking over the tavern’s patrons with the sharpness of someone who sees everything without being noticed.

The shop is a small, unassuming building tucked just off the main dockside road, its worn wooden sign hanging above the door, gently swaying in the breeze. The scent of whale oil and ink near the shop mixes with lakeside air, creating a unique and somewhat pungent aroma that lingers outside. The exterior is aged, with faded paint and weather-beaten wood, but the inside is meticulously organized, each item displayed with purpose. Wooden shelves line the walls, laden with a vast assortment of scrimshander’s tools—precision needles, finely honed knives in every shape imaginable, and delicate, gleaming files for fine detail work. Jars of colorful inks in rich blues, greens, and reds sit on a counter next to small pots of wax, each one meticulously labeled and arranged by shade. The light inside is dim but steady, filtered through a single window that faces the docks, where the occasional salty breeze ruffles the paper scrolls pinned up along the walls, showing off various examples of the scrimshander’s craft—intricate carvings on bones, ivory, and polished wood.
Iriskree Harrowhill, the shop’s owner, is a quiet, doughy woman of middle age whose thick glasses perpetually slide down the bridge of her nose as she silently goes about her work. Her graying hair is pulled back in a loose bun, and her soft, round face is often hidden behind a veil of concentration as she carefully sharpens the tools she keeps behind the counter or inspects the fine details of a new engraving. Though she rarely speaks, when she does, it’s often in a low, hushed voice, and her words are measured—often about people long gone from her life, with a melancholy fondness. Her hands, though plump and soft, are skilled, moving with surprising grace as she handles the delicate instruments of her trade. Few know much about her past, and she certainly isn’t one to share, but the shop’s few regulars know that her quiet demeanor hides a history she prefers to keep to herself. Whether it’s her old associates she speaks of so wistfully or her skillful precision with the engraving tools, there’s an unmistakable sense of hidden depth behind her simple, unassuming shop.

The first thing that hits you is the smell of freshly baked cookies as you round the corner to the forest road leading away from the docks. The first house on the left is Nimsy Huddle’s. A modest, all-wood, two-story home built as human-scale.

Inside, most of the furniture is sized for halflings, with a few big chairs for visitors of taller stock. Four halfling children scamper from room to room and climb a ladder up to the loft, chasing one another with wooden swords, while a fire crackles in the hearth in Speaker Huddle’s cluttered kitchen.