Located on Park Row near the Warrens.
Proprietor: Grammie, human male, expert
Grammie is likely inside the owl bear when the PCs enter, doing gods know what.
The human male has long, greasy hair, and wears makeup to cover some type of skin malady. Hence the nickname Grammie. He wears a dark, red robe covered by an even darker leather apron, stained from years of blood and viscera. His hands are covered in oversized/large boiled leather gloves. Magnifying googles and a protective head scarf obscure his face. Small, preserved body parts dangle like ornaments from the top of his apron.
The Mournful Menagerie Taxidermy Shop Map
Image Credit: Czepeku
Description of The Mournful Menagerie
As they turned onto Park Row, the cold, gray King’s River was clear before them, covered in a blanket of think fog that lingered in place. The sky looked like it could begin raining at any moment.
As they approached the haunted-looking taxidermist shop on the edge of the water, they couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. The building itself was old and weathered, with peeling paint and creaking shutters. The windows were murky and seem to reflect an eerie green light, which made it difficult to see inside.
The shop’s sign creaked on rusted hinges, revealing the name of the establishment: “The Mournful Menagerie.” The name alone sent shivers down their spines, and they began to wonder what kind of twisted creations could be lurking inside.
The front of the shop was cluttered with an array of bizarre taxidermy creatures, from winged monkeys to giant sea serpents, all displayed in twisted poses. The smell of rotting flesh lingered in the air, and they could hear the distant sound of animal calls coming from within.
As they stepped closer, the creak of the front door echoed through the empty street. The shop was silent, save for the sound of their footsteps on the creaky wooden floorboards. They felt as if they were being watched, and turned to see the taxidermied eyes of an owlbear staring straight at them from short stone plinth in the middle of the room.
The walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of strange and grotesque creatures, all perfectly preserved in their unnatural poses. The air was thick with dust and cobwebs, and they couldn’t help but feel as if something was breathing down their necks.
The taxidermist’s workbench sat in the center of the room next to the owlbear, strewn with tools and half-finished creatures. They could almost hear the whispers of dark magic and rituals that must have taken place there.
Looting towards the back of the shop, the air grew colder and the sounds of the river grew louder. They could see the faint outline of a door leading out to the water, and wondered what kind of twisted experiments the taxidermist could be performing out there in the dead of night.
As they neared the owlbear, a voice had spoken out of nowhere, sounding muffled somehow.
“Who’s feet do I hear creeping along my floors? They sound like they would make nice charms for a lapel, once properly shrunk and preserved.”
The voice had cackled with laughter, amused by it’s own imagery.