The Boar's Tusk Inn

Thirty-five years ago I was just playing The Fantasy Trip solo. I was either in a Death Test dungeon or on a quest for the Holy Grail. But I was also was letting my imagination run wild creating a couple of different fantasy worlds to campaign in if I ever was to GM a game. I was digging through my hand-written notes today and decided to post a little about one of my favorite NPCs.

Boar’s Tusk Inn

Harlan Finstok Carook, proprietor

The Boar’s Tusk Inn is in the town of Bridgeton which is located along a major trade route where it crosses the river. The Inn itself is a rambling affair of buildings added to over time. The main building includes a tavern with large main hall, private sitting room for valued guests, kitchen and cook’s quarters. Upstairs are Harlan’s family quarters and two fine quest rooms accessed by a separate set of stairs. The attached addition contains more rooms ranging from moderate to very economical lodging. There is a stable for animals, store house, smoke house, and the home of the bartender and his family. 

The town of Bridgeton offers many services to the travelers along the road. There are a number of merchants who can help prepare a party to travel by the river or the caravan road that leads northward into the mountains.

Harlan fancies himself an adventurer, but one look at him says different. He is a portly, 250 pounds, with graying temples. He wears trousers, linen shirt, leather vest, and apron around his waist. He speaks, reads, and writes the common (human) tongue, speaks common elvish, and knows a few phrases of orc, dwarfish, and high elf.

He makes a trip down river once a year to the city to purchase wines and spices for the kitchen. He has an agent there who buys for him.

It’s been a busy night at the Boar’s Tusk Inn. Two large groups of travelers had arrived before dark and both groups demanded the best of the house. Also it had been market day and there were more than the usual crowd of locals dining and drinking. Just a few minutes ago two men got into an argument over a game of dice. Harlan Finstok Carook lumbers back behind the bar and grabs a towel and proceeds to wipe a spill.

“Salesmen!” he shouts in an exasperated voice at no one in particular. “The gods protect me from salesmen.” He pours himself a glass of his favorite brandy. “Do you know I had one of those traveling parasites in here yesterday. He… he wanted me to buy his wares and give them away! By Ygir’s frozen beard can you believe that? Give it away! Where’s the profit in that?”

Before you can get a word in to ask a question he goes on. “They didn’t impress me at all. A sort of bread stick, thin and way too salty. Put them in bowls on the bar he says, let the customers eat all they want he says. He must have taken me for a fool. I threw the lout out of here, I did.”

“Pretzels, he called them. Bah!”