The sign above the door reads "The Anxious Trumpet". The local tavern, you assume, stepping foot inside the doors and knocking the mud from your boots against the doorframe. But the raucous shouts and jeers you’ve come to associate with taverns are nowhere to be heard here. You peer inside the dimly lit room, worried that they may be closed, but no—the place is actually quite lively. Most of the tables are occupied, and a barkeep slinks around the tavern, their shoes making barely a whisper of sound, occasionally leaning down and murmuring quietly with a patron before returning to the bar to pour drinks. The hearth is shielded by a tinted screen, and the stew cooking in the cauldron releases only a faint scent of potato and carrots. Everyone seems perfectly content with the quiet, the dimness, and the lack of fragrance.

What do you do?

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