Entwined Hearts in The Tattered Crown

You stand in a room older than the inn itself, where thick stone walls cradle warmth

long after the fire burns low. The ceiling beams are dark with age, etched with symbols

for protection. Whoever built this place knew of dark nights to come. A monumental oak

bed commands the room, dressed with heavy quilts made for fierce winters.

A bearskin rug sprawls before it, invitingly soft underfoot. Nearby: a low desk,

a basin, a narrow window cracked just enough to let in cool, rain-scented air.

Across the room: hooks for cloaks, a stout chest for gear, a door leading to

a private washroom still warm with steam. Candlelight casts calm shadows,