There is a place that was never meant to be. But it is there. People are trying to get away.
Some are successful.
Most are not.
There is a keep and a lord who do not care.
There are dirty docks and putrid piers. A muddy road leading from the docks up into the wooden walls of this place.
Stone houses with leaking roofs. The smell of stoves doing there best to displace the the ever lasting humidity and cold.
The sound of a farrier near the stables and the sawing of shipyard workers in the mud.
Herein contained in this place, that should never had been, lays a good place. A living but calm place. The Dry Dog Inn. A retired ship from the times before the rain. Jacked up it stand on the central quare. A pleasant inn and the perfect place to plan to get away.