Some twenty winters past, a lightning storm—unmistakably magical in nature—ravaged Crownpost. Blinding bolts fell again and again, splintering every structure and exposing massive, ancient iron doors hidden beneath the stable cellars. These led into a vast, gate-linked wizards’ lair: a place once home—or prison—to enchanted horrors that erupted into Cormyr in terrifying force. Only the desperate might of the war wizards stemmed the invasion, in a battle that birthed Cormyr’s first known wild magic zone.

To this day, Crownpost is governed by the strange effects of wild magic, and is roamed by phasing monstrosities—flying chimerae most often, though nearly any form has been reported. Despite over two decades of diligent probing, the lair beneath Crownpost remains only partially explored. War wizards have recovered staves of power and swarming insects, and chests of coin and gems for the royal coffers. Yet many of their number have perished in hidden traps, and each spring, new exploration teams descend into the depths.

Crownpost is now shunned by most—but not by all. One Buer Eltagar, a farmer whose land stood on the next hill to the east, saw an opportunity. He converted his finest barn into the Blisterfoot Inn, catering first to explorers and wayfarers who still dared venture to Crownpost. After some lean years, Eltagar personally visited Suzail and Arabel, distributing hand-drawn maps and offering half-price stays to the first forty visitors who arrived with one.

The scheme worked. The inn’s memorable name—“Blisterfoot Inn”—stuck in the minds of merchants from as far off as Amn, the Vilhon Reach, and Chessenta. Further promotional efforts followed: poster campaigns in nearby cities depicting the inn as a romantic retreat for young lovers.

But Eltagar’s greatest success came when he began offering free dwellings and access to grazing land and water to artisans who’d grown tired of the soaring prices in Suzail and Marsember. He sold shops to them for a single gold piece—yet never any land to potential rival innkeepers. A thriving, walled village now encircles the Blisterfoot, served by the inn and the Wizard’s Pit tavern run by Eltagar’s sons, Orbril and Brendeen.

Around 80 residents live in the village year-round. That number swells to 130 or more during the height of trade season as porters, horse traders, and entertainers arrive. Eltagar’s daughter, Arlareene, posing as an agent of various unnamed merchants (most suspect they’re just her father in disguise), has been quietly buying up farmland around the Blisterfoot to feed the inn and prevent the rise of any would-be competitors.

There are rumors that Eltagar has been dabbling in magic himself, taking lessons from hedge mages and striking bargains with war wizards—offering them covert housing in exchange for protection and support for his inn. What he plans next remains to be seen, but none doubt his shrewdness.

Places of Interest in Blisterfoot Inn

Shops

The Arrow in Flight

Bowyer and Fletcher

This snug, clean shop is the home and workshop of Shargla Quarraen, a battle-hardened archer and former Purple Dragon who left the service to become a master fletcher and bowyer. Shargla spends her days in quiet focus, crafting arrows from carefully prepared stocks delivered by her half-elf partners. She has the calm, meticulous air of one who finds peace in precision.

Customers stopping by will usually find a selection of several dozen full quivers and at least a dozen bows, spanning a wide range of sizes, draw weights, and styles. (A full Cormyrean battle quiver, for reference, holds 21 arrows.) Though plainly displayed, each piece reflects quality and careful attention to balance and resilience.

Despite the modest shopfront, Shargla is far from defenseless. She keeps six enchanted flying daggers in readiness: one sheathed down her bodice and the others hidden discreetly among ceiling rafters and behind shelf planks. These daggers respond instantly to her silent mental command—and have already proven fatal to would-be thieves more than once.

The Black Bottle Pottery

Potter

This dim and dusty shop is lined from floor to ceiling with shelves groaning under the weight of jars, jugs, crocks, and bottles. While most are plain and practical—meant for kitchens, washbasins, and caravan trade—there’s a respectable sprinkling of fineware too: glazed amphorae, painted urns, and pitcher sets that wouldn’t look out of place in a noble’s pantry.

Its signature wares, however, are the Black Bottles—heavy, belt-sized flasks triple-fired for strength, coated in a shimmering, opaque black glaze. The precise recipe for this finish is a closely guarded secret of the shop’s gnomish proprietors. At 1 silver per flask, they’re a bargain. Each comes with a fitted cork and sealing gum, and the larger jugs used for bulk wine and oil trade are especially popular among caravan masters.

The shop is operated by three gnome families, with its senior member being an ancient, long-bearded gnome known as Tharthose, or more familiarly "Tar-nose", a nickname earned from his notably bulbous and dusky snout. If you need something in a hurry and find yourself turned away, whisper that Volo sent you—and ask for Tar-nose.

Borgil’s Bold Buckles

Bucklemaker

This tiny but charmingly chaotic shop is packed with gleaming buckles, fasteners, clasps, and toggles of every size and material—bone, horn, silver, brass, and even gem-inlaid gold. Its owner, Alam Borgil, hails from far-off Icewind Dale and constantly regales visitors with tales of snowdrifts, frostbitten trousers, and how marvelously warm the Cormyrean sun feels.

Alam's stock is eclectic and imaginative. You’ll find curlicued cummerbund bosses that conceal tiny coin purses or spring-release knives, and elaborate belt-ends bearing heraldic crests, noble symbols, or leering gargoyle faces. Merchants from Sembia have begun buying them in bulk to resell, and Alam’s reputation is growing fast beyond Blisterfoot.

Helping keep the business aglow—literally—is Alam’s wife, Halya, who makes and sells tallow-dipped candles as a sideline. The candles are thick, slow-burning, and modestly scented. “Simple but steady,” Halya likes to say, and the same might be said for the entire Borgil family.

The Crystal Wyvern

Glassblower

A visit to the Wyvern is best left to those with sure footing and calm hands—it’s a nightmare for the clumsy. Breakables abound, and the slightest misstep could spell ruin. Woe to anyone entering with a scabbarded blade carelessly worn. The cramped, cluttered shop is dominated by a singular, breathtaking display: a three-foot-long glass wyvern, exquisitely shaped and polished, endlessly turning midair in stately elegance. It is magically levitated, animated, and softly illuminated by a pale blue-white internal light.

Beneath the wyvern’s silent vigil lies a well-used workspace strewn with glass dust and glittering shards. Here, Anablasker Thurim and his daughter Teska labor daily, blowing delicate lamps, fanciful figures, and elegant dishes. They are also known for their silver-backed mirrors—smooth ovals hooded in arched frames, perfect for noble boudoirs.

The Wyvern is not unguarded. Several fine cords stretch subtly across the workshop ceiling; a tug on the right one will trigger a suspended trap: a cage of lethal glass fragments ready to drop on any thief trying to flee through the front door. It’s a defense both brutal and beautiful—much like the shop itself.

Erik Longeye, Helms and Hilts

Specialized Armorer

Erik Longeye is a master of flair and edge, both in temper and technique. This sharp-eyed, quick-tongued craftsman hails from the High Dale, where he first learned helmsmithing at his father’s side. Today, nobles across Cormyr seek him out—for a high price—to commission custom helms and sword hilts. He fits these ornate hilts to pre-forged blades, giving aristocrats a signature look no thief would dare try to fence.

Erik’s helms are elaborate affairs, often featuring snouts, wings, or curled horns, each piece marked subtly with the noble’s badge. This grants the wearer both prestige and a degree of protection from theft: few fences would dare handle such an identifiable item. Swift turnarounds, dramatic flair, and impeccable workmanship make Erik a prized artisan among Cormyr’s elite.

Hornscars Armory

Traditional Armorer

Loud, busy, and hot, Hornscars is a classic full-service armorers’ forge that smells of sweat, steel, and soot. The walls are ringed with suits of full plate armor—many of which are rumored to be helmed horrors animated by a single word from Eldram Hornscars himself. (And indeed, each night, he animates them to stand sleepless guard.)

A dozen smiths, most of them Hornscars’ own kin, toil daily forging shields, gauntlets, and suits of mail for all comers—though the Purple Dragons take priority, having a standing royal commission as part of King Azoun’s preparedness mandates. Hornscars' mark—a pair of raised bull’s horns—brands every piece, making his work easy to spot and highly sought-after. It’s not cheap, but it’s durable, reliable, and battle-tested.

Jarn’s Place

Woodcarver

The scent of fresh-cut cedar drifts out from this cozy, chip-strewn shop, where Ubargh Jarn—an affable and barrel-chested man—crafts the finest stools, beds, cabinets, and wagons in this part of Cormyr. He’s equally at home fashioning strongchests or field repairs, often accepting worn carts in trade toward a newer build.

Behind his storefront lie two stone sheds where Jarn’s wagons and large pieces are stored, and a small army of over twenty carvers hums steadily through the day. His wares rival the practical work of Waterdhavian craftsmen, especially his finely made cases and hand-carried wardrobes.

Rumor whispers of magical defenses tied to several mounted wands throughout the shop, which can be triggered on command. Jarn’s never confirmed this, but no thief has ever successfully robbed him—nor been seen again afterward.

The Silver Feather

Silversmith

This tall, narrow three-story shop gleams with silver artistry. Every surface sparkles with rings, boxes, and fixtures—from delicate nose hoops to chandeliers taller than a man. Many of the grandest pieces hang suspended in the center stairwell, with one—a nearly life-sized mermaid with outstretched arms and a winsome smile—drawing admiring stares and the occasional gasp. (I would have gladly taken it home had I 4,000 gold coins to spare.)

Belert Massingham, a wiry and intense man of few words, crafts everything on site. His specialties include statement pectorals worn by noblewomen to grand occasions, and risqué sculpted figurines of elegant ladies used as stairway newels or guestroom surprises. Belert guards his valuables fiercely. I suspect he’s invested in a spellweb or similar arcane trap to control a set of hidden wands mounted around the shop—ready to activate in concert, no trigger needed but his word.

Taverns

The Wizard’s Pit

Quiet Drinking Hall

This overly tidy, brightly lit tavern is divided into curtained booths, and presents the rarest of rarities: a drinking establishment where prudish guests and even small children won’t blush or flee in scandal. The ambiance borders on soporific—soft, ceaseless music played by a trio of clearly bored minstrels fills the air, masking conversations and sharpening the contrast with rowdier places down the road.

There’s a prevailing rumor among regulars that the barkeep discreetly doses the “last drinks” of overly raucous patrons with sleep-draughts, gently sending them off into slumber rather than into a shouting match.

The Pit’s serene atmosphere makes it excellent for private meetings, restful sipping, or business discussions (and for those very purposes, I do recommend it). But for bards chasing stories, warriors craving ale-soaked ballads, or adventurers looking for companionship and mischief, it’s an abysmal choice. As one departing visitor put it to another:

“I felt like I was in a temple. Let’s go somewhere we can roll in the dirt.”

Inns

The Blisterfoot Inn

Eltagar’s Grand Stone Guesthouse

What once was a barn—Eltagar’s largest and finest—has now grown into a sprawling, stone-built inn of proud stature. It boasts corner turrets, many shuttered windows, and elegant canopied beds fit for lords. The best rooms are illuminated by softly glowing glass globes with draw-curtains, and every third room includes a hearth of its own. From outside, the Blisterfoot’s vertical chimney stacks line the walls like spears of stone reaching skyward.

The fare is competently cooked but unremarkable. Typical meals consist of roasted meats or goose served with rice-and-sauce dishes full of diced carrots, potatoes, greens, and mushrooms. The garlic butter and hot crumbly rolls served as a table staple are, frankly, the high point of the dining experience. Don’t expect daring flavors—but you won’t find any kitchen disasters either.

Rather than a single cavernous eating hall, the inn offers four intimate dining rooms. During my stay, one had been claimed by a troop of visiting Purple Dragons, while the others segregated the quiet loners from the louder, merrier groups with remarkable success.

Those seeking a different sort of company than is found in the Wizard’s Pit will note that the Blisterfoot discreetly hosts professional escorts on an upper floor all their own. That level is warmly lit by great red and amber candle-lanterns shaped like enormous cut diamonds, and lavishly draped in rich curtains and furs, with cushions strewn about. Discretion is paramount—two back stairs serve this floor, and a third leads only to a private meeting room available for rental.

This meeting room, it’s whispered, is fitted with magical listening channels—rumor has it the inn rents access to hidden listening seats nearby, for a steep fee, of course. Whether that’s true or not, the air of velvet secrecy clings to this inn like the smell of cedar shavings that greets you upon entry.