This leafy sanctuary is half tavern, half safe house; it caters to the most powerful prime elves, those who seek the glories of Arborea, Alfheim, and the Beastlands. Humans, half-elves, bariaur, and primes are tolerated, but fully sylvan customers are given preference. Githzerai and tieflings are not permitted on the premises. Many weary Clueless have been cheered by the Green Mill - they claim it's like going home to their crystal spheres. (Puling nostalgic weaklings, really.)
A body can't miss the building itself: The mill is painted a bright yellow-green in contrast to the soot darkened walls of the buildings all around it, and it's scrubbed each week to keep it that way. In its large central courtyard grow the largest trees — perhaps the only trees - of Sigil. The chant is the elves have planted a small World Ash (and the thousand years they'll need to spend growing it doesn't bother them). The rumor is amusing but unlikely, since most Arborean and Alfheim elves know that the Yggdrasil's seeds are steril.
Inside, the Green Mill is opulent, with fragrant pillars and beams of cedar, richly gilded and carved to resemble vines and leaves. The walls are hung with thick, sound-deadening tapestries in repeating leaf patterns of light and dark, like the sun in a forest. The light is dim at all hours, and the air hangs heavy with the scents of flowers and moss.
The house bards play elven airs, and the lack of an echo makes the acoustics seem like those of a real forest. The most famous of the Green Mill's epic sagas is "Sketches of Sigil," a lay that has enjoyed a wide popularity outside the inn's walls; even yugoloths have been heard humming its tune to themselves. The dabus sometimes visit, and those nights are unforgettable. Their response always adds to the fireworks, flashing throughout the hall as a rapid series of images, rather like musical notation and visual interpretation. Even some of the bloods from The Lady's Ward have come to see the dabus, and rumors of the Lady herself appearing are as common as soot.
The mill still operates as a mill, the rotting swill of the Ditch turning its great wheel, said swill generating power to make elven breads and wayfarers' cakes. For slow periods, the Mill's equipped with a small windmill, sails, and gears, but these are cumbersome and less powerful than the waterwheel.
A few of the youngest elves insist that the Mill lies within The Lady's Ward, but most agree that it is part of the Lower Ward. However, its charm and warmth have won it a following from the rich and powerful of The Lady's Ward; whether that is merely a pleasant, but soon forgotten, diversion for the high-ups or something more remains to be seen. The work of its fletchers, weavers, and millers keeps it within the Lower Ward, but even there it's a rare oasis of elegance in a wasteland of smoke, sweat, and steel.