![[inkandanvil.jpg|500]] The Ink & Anvil sits at the edge of Charterhall’s “Artisan’s Row” on Banner Road across from The Colony, where the ink-stained hands of printers meet the soot-streaked faces of machinists. Once a small ironworks that supplied parts for university presses, the building’s bones still hum with old labor - heavy rivets, blackened beams, and an ever-present tang of oil and hot metal. At night, the tavern glows with lamplight refracted through bottles of cheap amber gin. The sound of clinking mugs mingles with the rhythmic thud of the presses in the backroom - still operational, though now repurposed for illicit work. There’s a certain heat here: creative, political, and literal. The walls are papered with manifestos, half-finished poems, and revolutionary posters that curl at the corners from the steam. This isn’t a place for quiet reflection. It’s for shouting, singing, and spilling ink and ale in equal measure. Every table feels like a workshop - ideas hammered into shape while the drinks flow.