The Irrines Tavern On one side of the town, on a street just far enough from the marketplace to avoid most of its crowds, sits a fairly plain wooden building, rather like a cabin amid the brick of the other businesses on the street. The sign far above its door, clearly hand-painted, reads "Irrines Tavern", and below that, in smaller letters, "lodgings for the night". It's sunset, and you've traveled far enough. Opening the door, the smell of alcohol and noise of revelry, the murmur of talk, assail your senses. The room covers most of the building's ground floor, and would be spacious were it not so full of people. The bartender, it seems, is the owner, and has no time now to discuss which rooms are available. So you take a seat. Later, the crowds have died down. Most of the locals who frequent the place have cleared out, as well as the workers who don't live in the tavern. It's just you and a few others left.