The Crooked Root

Deep in the Shadowed Thicket, where the canopy knots overhead and the moss never quite dries, there is a door in the roots of the oldest tree. Behind it is the Crooked Root: low ceilings, a fire that smokes a little, and the only warm room for miles.

The few who travel the dark wood stop here to warm their hands and swap stories they would rather not believe. The keeper serves mushroom stew, which is excellent, and has hung a sign by the door warning guests not to eat any mushroom that talks back.

A tiny, giggling pixie drinks from a thimble at the end of the bar most nights. She starts most of the trouble and finishes almost none of it.