A drifting lakeside inn built atop a massive raft of ancient timber and moss-covered barrels, Moonhollow Mooring wanders the misty waters beneath the silver glow of the moon. Its lanterns burn warm against the cold fog, welcoming travelers, fishermen, poets, and the occasionally cursed wanderer seeking rest from the strange wilderness beyond the reeds.
No one knows who first built Moonhollow Mooring. Some claim it was crafted by a lonely ferryman who refused to leave his home behind after the great floods. Others whisper the inn simply appeared one fog-heavy evening and never stopped drifting since.
The structure creaks softly with the movement of the water, its crooked chimneys puffing pale smoke into the night sky while ropes, charms, and faded trinkets sway gently from the eaves. The inn never seems to dock in the same place twice, yet somehow lost travelers always manage to find its lantern glowing through the mist exactly when they need it most.
Inside, the air smells of cedarwood, pipe smoke, cinnamon tea, and rain-soaked wool. The floors groan like an old ship, and every table carries tiny carvings left behind by generations of guests. A sleepy black bird often watches from the rafters, and the owner—an impossibly calm old woman named Mirella—somehow remembers the name of every visitor, even those who swear they’ve never been there before.
The waters surrounding the inn are unnaturally still at night. Boats tied to the dock are said to remain untouched by storms, and those who spend the evening at Moonhollow Mooring often leave with lighter hearts, clearer dreams, and the uneasy feeling that the inn knew something about them they never said aloud.
Locals believe the inn follows sorrow the way seabirds follow fishing boats. And on the coldest nights, if the moon hangs low enough, travelers claim the Mooring can briefly drift somewhere far stranger than the lake itself.
