I want to sit in a tavern by the docks on a stormy night - seawater creeping in and out under the thick door from the tumultous waves crashing against the rocks
I want to listen to an old man rave about mermaids and sea monsters
The tavern is old and smells like of fish and ale, but nobody quite minds it. There is always a roaring fire going by the hearth in the back, where an old woman sits and listens to the flames - her eyes milky pale, seeing nothing but knowing everything all the same.
Should you wander in through the main door, a cat might squeeze in when you do - looking for warmth and company.
Maybe the barkeep will spot you and call you a sorry sight - clothes drenched and hair plastered to your face and neck.
”Ye look like a drowned weasel - have a seat close to the fire while I pour you something strong enough to warm your bones.”
Perhaps you give him a rude gesture for calling you a weasel, or maybe you’re just so grateful to be warm that you merely sigh and squeeze the water out from your long braid.