THE CRACKED WEASEL: FOUNDATIONS
If you travel to the heart of Old Korvosa, where the old city's pulse beats the strongest, there you will find me. I am the building known as the Cracked Weasel. For over two centuries, I have stood sentinel, witnessing the ebb and flow of life in this vibrant metropolis.
In the earliest days, I stood tall and proud, a testament to a successful merchant whose name has long been lost to the mists of time. It was he who first breathed life into me but not as tavern but as home. He adorned my walls with fine tapestries, my floors were polished to a gleaming shine, and my windows framed views of the bustling city below and beyond. Within my hallowed halls, the merchant entertained guests of high standing, hosting lavish feasts and extravagant parties that echoed with the laughter of the city's elite. Oh, the tales I could tell!
But as the years wore on, the merchant's fortunes waned, as did his health. Upon his passing, I passed into the hands of a new owner—a distant relative, perhaps, or a shrewd investor seeking to capitalize on my prime location in the heart of the city. But my new owner lacked the merchant's vision and resources, and so started the slow rot of neglect and decay.
Worse was to come, in 4606 AR, the death of the deity Aroden, resulted in civil war in Cheliax and many of the Empire's colonies, including Korvosa suffered as their connection to the homeland unexpectedly disappeared. Thousands left the city. And those who stayed decided my location was no longer desirable.
This led to more owners and more neglect. One by one, they came and went, each leaving their mark upon my weathered walls. None cared for my history, none really cared to make me a proper home. I was simply bricks and mortar to them. A shell to cover their heads.
As time ebbed by, both I and the city changed. The streets outside my walls grew busier with each passing year, filled with merchants hawking their wares, beggars pleading for coin, and cutpurses lurking in the shadows. What was once spacious surroundings soon became cramped and suffocating, as towering buildings rose up on either side of me, casting long shadows over my once bright façade stealing away my sunlight.
As the city grew darker and filthier, so too did I. Neglectful owners came and went, their footsteps echoing hollowly through my empty corridors as they paid little heed to the slow decay eating away at my once proud exterior. My once-bright paint faded and peeled, leaving behind a facade of dark, weathered wood, and my interior lost its former warmth and charm, replaced by a musky scent of mildew and old wood, tinged with the faint odour of the sewers that ran beneath the streets. Cracks spiderwebbed across my walls, allowing moisture to seep in and rot the very bones of my structure. Windows shattered and were left unrepaired, letting in the chill of winter and the whispers of the night.
Oh, how I longed for someone to see past my crumbling facade, to recognize the beauty that still lingered within my worn and weathered walls. But hope seemed a distant dream as I languished in the shadows, a forgotten relic of a bygone era.
Then came the darkest days of all, when a particularly neglectful owner nearly spelled my doom. Under his careless watch, I fell into such disrepair that it seemed I might crumble to dust at any moment. My roof leaked, my floorboards groaned underfoot, and the very air inside grew heavy with the scent of decay. I could feel my walls threaten to crumble at any moment.
Then a scene of chaos unfolded. My owner, a man of volatile temperament fuelled by drink and despair, found himself one night consumed by a maelstrom of anger and frustration. Blaming the gods for his misfortune, he hurled a lantern against one of my walls, its fiery contents igniting my wooden structure with a fierce intensity. The flames licked hungrily at my skin, spreading with alarming speed and the air filled with the acrid scent of smoke.
The drunken fool ran away, not caring one jot for my fate.
It was a moment of sheer terror for me—a nightmare come to life as the very essence of my being was threatened to be consumed by fire. The crackling of flames echoed through my halls. As the inferno raged on, I resigned myself to my fate., I knew it was only a matter of time before I would turn into ash. These were my last moments, and it seemed such a sad way to depart. Alone.
But just when it seemed that all was lost, the heavens opened, unleashing a torrential downpour that doused the flames with a merciful finality. The rain fell in sheets, extinguishing the inferno and quenching the thirst of the scorched earth below.
In the aftermath of the fire, I stood battered and broken, my once-grand facade forever gone. Blackened and bruised, I had survived but only just. I was barely a shell. Depression flooded my foundations and with it a terrible realisation. I would never again know the touch of an owner's hand. I was condemned to languish in solitude for eternity.
But just when all seemed lost, a glimmer of hope appeared on the horizon. A man called Sirius Blackfire, saw potential in me. Sirius was a man of pride and determination, and he refused to let the neighbourhood’s reputation as a harbour for thieves, cutpurses, and murderers dim the light of his beloved city. He had a vision. To transform me into a place where people could gather and enjoy each other’s company. A safe haven! I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to raise funds for my much-needed repairs. He worked tirelessly to restore me, patching up my worn floorboards, scrubbing away years of grime, and filling the air with the comforting aroma of hearty stews and freshly baked breads. With his blood, sweat and tears, he brought back from the brink of oblivion. Though I would never again be as bright and gleaming as in my youth, I emerged from the darkness with a newfound strength and resilience. Sirius had made me into a Tavern. A home away from home for people
He called me The Cracked Weasel. I found it to be a strange name. One that didn’t sit right with me at first. But then one night, a patron came and asked him what was the reason behind the tavern’s name.
Sirius explained “that Legend had it that long ago, in the early days of Korvosa's founding, the city was plagued by a mischievous and elusive creature—a weasel with fur as dark as the night and eyes that glinted with a cunning intelligence. This weasel, known as Crackletooth for the peculiar cracking sound it made as it darted through the city's alleyways, was said to be the bane of merchants and travellers alike, stealing their goods and disappearing without a trace.
One fateful night, as the city slept and the moon hung low in the sky, Crackletooth struck again, raiding the stores of a particularly irate merchant who vowed to catch the elusive creature once and for all. Armed with traps and weapons, the merchant and his companions set out to hunt down the elusive weasel, tracking it through the twisting streets and darkened corners of the city.
After a night of pursuit that seemed to stretch on for eternity, the merchant finally cornered Crackletooth in a narrow alleyway, where a fierce battle ensued. But just as victory seemed within his grasp, the weasel slipped through his fingers, disappearing into the shadows with a mocking chitter that echoed in the merchant's ears long after it was gone. The merchant, although disappointed in not catching the creature, smiled in admiration as it had shown him to never give up and never give in, no matter what the odds.”
“And so” continued Sirius,”that’s how the Cracked Weasel was born. This was the old home of the Merchant that tried to catch that elusive creature. Therefore, it seemed only fitting to name it after their encounter. And though Crackletooth may have vanished into legend, the spirit of the weasel lives on in the hearts of those who pass through these doors, forever immortalized in the tavern that bore its name.”
I smiled when I heard that tale. It brought memories of my old master back to me and made me realise something. For over 200 years I have endured—my timbers creaking, my windows rattling, and my walls bearing witness to the passage of time. And though the faces may have changed, and the fortunes of the city risen and fallen like the tides, I remain a steadfast sentinel, a silent observer of Korvosa's ever-changing landscape. But now as the city outside grows ever more dangerous, I have become a bastion of hope and sanctuary for those seeking refuge within my hallowed halls. For I am not just a building, but a living testament to the indomitable spirit of those who refuse to let the light be extinguished, even in the darkest of times.
