Perched low along the river’s edge in Goldcrest, The Wallowing Pig looks like it’s slowly losing an argument with gravity. Its warped timber frame leans just a touch too far, its once-proud structure now sagging under years of neglect and damp river air. The bright purple roof—faded in places, patched in others—hangs unevenly, with loose shingles and moss creeping along its edges. In heavy rain, water spills from the gutters in uneven streams, pooling in the muddy street out front.
Inside, the tavern has always been warmer than it deserves to be. The hearth burns hot, the floors creak loudly, and the smell of riverwater, cheap ale, and roasted meat lingers in the beams. Lanternlight gives the place a kind of stubborn life—like it refuses to admit it should have closed years ago.
History
The Wallowing Pig was originally built as a dockside resthouse for barge workers and ferrymen, back when this stretch of river traffic was busier and far more respectable. In its early days, it was known for hearty food, strong drink, and a reputation for keeping trouble outside its doors.
That didn’t last.
As trade routes shifted and better establishments opened closer to New Velarim, the Pig was left behind. Ownership changed hands more times than anyone can properly recall—each new proprietor cutting corners, taking on debt, or disappearing entirely. Over time, it became less of a tavern and more of a last stop: smugglers, labourers down on their luck, and those who didn’t ask questions found their way here.
There are stories—quiet ones—about things moving through the cellar at night. About old tunnels that predate the building. About debts settled in ways that never reached the city watch.