Locals tell of an old watchtower a day's march away where the original founders once buried a time-capsule: a keg lid hammered with sigils, supposedly containing a list of those who swore loyalty to the crossroads. Some whisper that the tavern's foundations sit over a minor ley line, which is why bards claim their songs sound richer on certain nights. Nothing overtly magical has been seen—only small, odd occurrences: a lantern that refuses to go out during storms, and boots that sometimes warm on the hearth as if drying from a non-existent rain. Veterans nod when those tales are told, but many chalk it up to good atmosphere and a generous hearth.