Along the wet black planks of the tavern sign is an etching of a lamb against nebula of red, though the red's going pink with age and the white's peeling away in flecks of paint like the dignity from a dying man.  This shingle swings in the rain and wind of a late-summer shower, and beneath the droning patter of drops along the bracken and elms there is a muted clamour-- the echoes of laughter and music.  It is the good and assured laughter of working men and travelers accompanying the delicate strums of a lute that churns out intricate chords like a grinder-box, but with a soul.<br/><br/>The stout door swings outward and a stout-looking couple spill out into the rain, with them comes the inviting golden glow of the oil lamps within and a riotous spill of mirthful noise.  The female of the pair laughs girlishly as she huddles under her bearded partner's cloak and the two of them set off down the lane.  The door, hinged at a slight angle, swings shut with a clatter and the metal lift-catch rattles back into place, and the night is quieter again, the noise again an undertone to the pattering rainfall.<br/><br/>Crossroads stretch into the distance beyond the tavern's resting bulk, and the horizon is dotted by a few other structures that, by comparison to this one, seem far lonelier... this inn holds a place of respect for the evening, and its patrons are basking in the entertainment of a bard whose talent is a rare thing in these backwater towns.  The rain, however, seems to have kept most indoors for the evening, and there's still a little room in the feasthall...<br/><br/>[enter, please, or choose a place to have already occupied]