You find your way to the Salty Seabird, a long, two-story stone building with many windows, most of which shine with inviting yellow light. The crashing waves are heard easier on this lower tier, and the vague shapes of the quays and moored ships at the harbor can be dimly seen from up here.
The four of you step into the inn, which is full of boisterous Scurdaegans celebrating after a long day of hard work with large tankards of varying kinds of ale, bottles of strong liquor and glasses of wine. A fire roars in the huge hearth at the other end of the room, and the innkeeper is busily handing out drinks at the bar, while a couple tavern wenches weave between the bawdy patrons with delicately balanced trays. A cheerful jig plays in the background, coming from a trio near the hearth playing hand drums, a fiddle and a flute.
Despite the chaos, the inn appears to be well-kept, if rather plain-looking, but is clean and the patrons friendly. BusyScurdaegan days call for busier Scurdaegan nights, it seems.