Prologue

As the wind carried the scent of rain over the hills, I took my lute and slung it over my back. The road ahead stretched like an endless ribbon, winding through the heart of the Old World. I am Benjamin, a humble bard, a teller of tales, and this is my journey. Not of kings and their battles, nor of dragons and dark sorcery, but of places—hidden corners of the realm where the weary rest and the curious find their solace.

Inns. Taverns. These are the lifeblood of the road. Each one holds a story, a moment, a memory worth keeping. For many years, my feet have carried me from one hearth to another, through snow-swept passes and over sun-drenched plains, always seeking the next warm fire, the next mug of ale. And now, I share these tales with you, dear reader, as you too may one day find yourself in need of a roof and a meal while the world turns outside.

This is no grand adventure, but the chronicle of the places between adventures—the inns of the Old World.

Inns

The Rusty Harp Inn

Set deep in the foothills of the southern range, The Rusty Harp stands like a stubborn relic, its timber beams worn smooth by decades of wind and weather. It is a place where minstrels gather, and the music never truly leaves. The inn takes its name from the ancient harp that hangs above the mantle, its strings broken and its wood warped by age. Yet the soul of music thrives here.

The innkeeper, Old Ferris, has a voice that could shake mountains. He is a former bard himself, retired from the wandering life but not from the songs. By the fire, the benches are always full of travelers, drawn by the promise of a hearty stew and an evening of tales. The ale is rich and dark, and the atmosphere is one of easy laughter and a shared love for the road.

If you ask kindly, Ferris might even play a tune on the old harp—though it never sounds quite right. It is said the instrument holds a curse from when a jealous rival snapped its strings in a fit of rage. To hear its broken melody is to hear the sorrows of the world.

The Lantern’s Rest

At the edge of the Blackwood Forest lies the Lantern’s Rest, a place where light and shadow meet in curious harmony. The inn is a tall, narrow structure, its windows glowing like amber eyes in the dark. Lanterns of all sizes hang from its beams and balconies, casting soft light that spills into the clearing around it.

Inside, the walls are crowded with maps, relics, and trinkets from the farthest reaches of the world, all collected by the innkeeper, a woman named Eda. She is a traveler of sorts, though now her feet are planted firmly on the wooden floors of the La

ntern’s Rest. The food here is simple—bread, cheese, and hearty vegetable soup—but it is the stories that are the true sustenance.

Guests often trade tales with Eda, whose sharp wit and sharper tongue can keep even the most boastful in check. It is said that those who stay at the Lantern’s Rest too long may lose themselves to the allure of the Blackwood, for the forest has a way of calling to those who linger.

The Iron Boar Tavern

The Iron Boar Tavern sits on the road to the northern mines, its stone walls sturdy against the biting winds of the highlands. This is no place for a dainty meal or gentle conversation. The Iron Boar is where mercenaries, miners, and traders converge after a hard day’s work, their laughter as rough as the edges of their blades.

The tavern’s namesake is a massive iron boar statue that stands guard by the entrance, its tusks gleaming in the dim light. The barkeep, a towering figure named Rurik, serves mead and beer by the barrel, and the food is as hearty as it comes—roasted meats, thick gravy, and loaves of bread fresh from the oven.

Beneath the raucous atmosphere, the Iron Boar is a place of unspoken camaraderie. A kind of mutual respect binds those who gather here—tough men and women who know the weight of the world but find solace in the company of their kind. And yet, even here, where the fire roars loudest, secrets are exchanged in low murmurs between tankards.

General Goods and Supplies Commonly Found in Inns

• Stale bread and fresh loaves
• Salted meats (beef, pork, venison)
• Local cheese wheels
• Dried fruits and nuts
• Ale, beer, mead, and wine
• Worn blankets and rough-hewn cloaks
• Lantern oil and candles
• Simple wooden bowls, plates, and cutlery
• Herbs and spices from distant lands
• Tobacco for pipes
• Blank parchments and quills for letters
• Simple medicinal herbs and remedies
• Playing cards, dice, and other small gambling tools
• Horseshoes and basic tools for repairs
• Bales of hay for travelers with horses
• Firewood and flint for those venturing into the wild

Epilogue

And so my journey continues, with the road stretching ever onward, and the hearths of distant inns flickering in the distance. As I take my lute and press on, I leave behind the warmth of The Rusty Harp, the glow of the Lantern’s Rest, and the raucous laughter of the Iron Boar. These places, though small and perhaps forgotten by many, have etched their mark on me, as they do on all who cross their thresholds.

For it is not the grand halls of kings nor the towering fortresses that hold the heart of the Old World—it is these inns, these humble places where the stories live and breathe. And perhaps, one day, dear reader, you will find yourself by one of these firesides, sharing your own tale.

Until then, I will be here, on the road, with my lute and my memories of the inns of the Old World.