Dated: 21 Aug, 2019
Ask any adventurer in the grand city of Dunromin which is the best inn in the city and chances are they will answer with a wicked grin and say “The Bawdy Wench”. This famous inn first opened its doors two hundred and twelve years ago and, it is claimed, has not shut its doors since.
The Bawdy Wench lurks at the centre of the city, near enough. It sits at the bottom of the Old City Walls on the border between the old town and the new. It is on Deepdale Street, just along from the steps up to Gibbet Tower. It has several doors and within many rooms, bars and lounges. It stands three or four stories tall, it is hard to be sure from some angles, and offers all manner of services and distractions. The beers and ciders are not city ales (which are famously and uniformly foul, due to The Curse) but imported from the fertile valleys of the south, usually from the halfling villages there. The wines are imported from all over, as is the tradition in most of the drinking houses in the city, but in the main from the elves south of the mountains. The food is, well, there is food. Accommodation is varied and suitable to any purse and experience, and a little extra (or simply having the right reputation or connections) will ensure your belongings are still your belongings come the morning.
Ownership of the ‘Wench has changed many times over the years, in normal business or lost and won in games of chance or other nefarious dealings. The current owner is perhaps the most unusual yet, although not the most colourful. In truth Tom Dunug does not own the ‘Wench, as being a humanoid, he is not allowed to own property in the city, at least, not yet. Who exactly owns it is a matter of debate, although rarely serious. Tom bought the inn when an adventurer, a successful fighter and a Lord, and a human. He was unfortunate enough to get himself killed on his very next adventure, incinerated by dragon fire (he still refuses to serve dragons and resents lizards). The Magic-User in the party, his lover at the time according to some, acted in haste and cast Reincarnation. What became of her is not known but Tom found himself a Troll, hence his current ownership conundrum.
Tom is a pleasant enough fellow and will talk happily (with a slight lisp due to his teeth) to any about new news from the far reaches of the world. His adventuring days are behind him, he says, because he claims “In the heat of battle my companions might find themselves lashing out at me in their haste.” There is little trouble at the Wench, save among those who regard such activities as entertainment. Those types tend to be restricted to the Back Room, where the furniture is cheaper.
Tom is not the only staff, of course, and has a motley crew of cut-throats, out of work actors, brazen harlots and homely elderly lags to keep the whole place jumping along. Music and poetry can oft be heard in some of the rooms, shouting and bidding in others. Many games of chance are catered for and there are secluded areas and private rooms for private business. The staff tend to lodge in the attic but during festivals every room is in demand and they must sleep when and where they can. Tom himself has a chamber beneath the cellar where, since his trollish incarnation, he has found himself to be more comfortable.
Everyone (except dragons) is welcome at the Bawdy Wench, as long as they have the coin, and even better if they have a tale to tell or news to share. Anyone and everyone might be found here and almost every conversation hides an opportunity for an ambitious and cunning mind.