Galda Emberpatch – Halfling Tavern Proprietor
“Drink at the low tables, build at the high benches, and try not to burn either down. First round is on you; second chances are on me.”
Name: Galda Emberpatch
Race: Halfling
Role/Class: Bard Level 7 (College of Valor)
Appearance: Galda Emberpatch is compact, solid, and instantly noticeable despite her height. She has warm, nut-brown skin, a broad nose, and a quick, sly smile that shows the faintest chip in one front tooth—a souvenir from a flying gear years ago. Her dark auburn hair is worn in a thick side-braid threaded with copper wire and tiny metal charms shaped like mugs, gears, and leaves. Her eyes are a sharp hazel, constantly flicking from customer to workbench, weighing moods and margins in the same glance.
She dresses like someone ready for both spills and negotiations: a deep red tunic under a tough leather corset, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms roped with muscle from hauling kegs and crates. A heavy, fireproofed apron hangs to her knees, stained with liquor, oil, and a few scorch marks. A set of sturdy rings—some simple silver, some clearly arcane—glitter across her fingers as she drums them on the bar. At her hip hangs a well-used rapier with a brass basket hilt; a compact hand crossbow sits in easy reach beneath the bar. Her boots are steel-capped and practical, ideal for kicking shut trapdoors or, when needed, someone’s shins.
Backstory
Galda grew up on caravan roads—her family ran a traveling food-and-ale wagon that followed trade routes across Eldervast. She learned to cook in cramped spaces, balance trays on uneven ground, and read the room in three heartbeats or less. By the time she was a teenager, she could tell a lonely mercenary from a knife about to be drawn by the way someone held their mug. She also discovered that a well-timed story or song could diffuse a brawl before it started.
On one particular circuit, the caravan stopped near the forest outposts and gnome camps in the Ardent Woods. Galda watched gnomes argue over bench space in makeshift sheds, adventurers gripe about having nowhere to meet craftsmen, and quartermasters complain about prototypes cluttering every corner. She realized something: everyone needed a place to drink, trade, and build—preferably somewhere that could contain the occasional small explosion.
She peeled off from the caravan and bought a battered roadside tavern near a well-traveled forest route. Over the years, she knocked out walls, reinforced beams, added ventilation hoods and tool racks, and turned the upper level into rentable workbenches with built-in safety wards. The result is a tavern-workshop hybrid where gnomes and other tinkerers can rent bench space by the day, while adventurers commission custom gear, repairs, or “just slightly illegal modifications” over dinner.
Galda’s establishment now serves as a social and economic hub: contracts are signed at corner tables, prototypes change hands in back booths, and rumors about Fernwalk’s latest inventions reach her bar before they reach the official notice boards. She takes a cut of bench fees and commissions, but her real power lies in the information that flows through her doors. She knows who’s buying, who’s building, and roughly how many ways it might go wrong.
Despite dealing with volatile tech and volatile people, Galda has kept the place standing. She maintains a strict set of House Rules—no live testing at the main tables, no unsealed explosives upstairs, no exploiting drunk patrons—and enforces them with a mix of charm, quiet menace, and the occasional thrown mug. Those who listen find steady work and stronger drinks. Those who don’t tend to find themselves cooling off outside, courtesy of Galda and whoever’s handy.
