Long before it bore a sign or a name, the spot where the Old Well Tavern now stands was nothing more than a mossy stone circle beside a sunken spring. Travelers would pause there, brushing away leaves, dipping cupped hands into the cold, sweet water, and leaving copper coins and secret wishes whispered into the depths.
That was before the Friars founded the Abbey and long before the building of Ravenmoore. But that's a story for a different time.
According to legend (and one particularly long-winded bard) the well was first discovered by a wandering brewer named Elda Copperpot, who had journeyed across the land in search of a place to craft her final cask—a brew so balanced and bright that it would sing on the tongue and bring peace to even the most quarrelsome villagers.
But Elda’s heart was heavy. Her knees ached. Her wagon wheel had come off and had to be reaffixed that morning. Her donkey was lame and limping. She had no water and the sun was sinking.
She found the spring quite by accident—following the sound of laughter and the scent of elderflowers. She fell into it, to be honest. But after cursing and sputtering as she crawled back out, she found her ladle in the cart and turned back to the spring.
She drank. She blinked. She drank again.
And then, inspired, she unloaded her last sack of barley and laid a fire. That night, she brewed a single small batch beneath the moonlight.
By morning, a fire crackled in a ring of stones.
By noon, a circle of strangers had arrived to sample what she’d made.
By dusk, someone had built a bench.
And by week’s end, a tavern had begun.
No one remembers exactly when the sign went up, or who carved the first taproom stool. Some say it was a grateful merchant. Others say it was the Rats. But all agree that the name—The Old Well—was less a title and more a promise: that there would always be water, always be ale, and always be someone ready to listen, sing, or raise a mug.
The tavern became the heart of the festival. Musicians tune their lutes under its beams. Secret deals are struck in its corners. The Queen once passed through in disguise and danced three jigs before vanishing into the crowd.
Some say the well itself still lies beneath the stone floor, hidden behind a locked hatch. If you press your ear to the floorboards after closing, you might hear it humming—faint and merry.
Today, the Old Well Tavern serves not just drink, but comfort. It is run by the loyal hands of Ravenmoore's folk (and occasionally, a Rat or two), and it welcomes all—knights and bakers, fire-jugglers and merchants, even cursed goblins seeking cider.
So raise a tankard when you pass its door, and leave a wish if you think of it.
The well remembers. The ale is cold. And the stories are waiting.
