Thirsty Throat Tavern

In the swirling chaos of Waterdeep’s Dock Ward, where the reek of salt and fish guts battles the scent of imported spices and cheap ale, stands a three-story building of stubborn stone and timber: The Thirsty Throat. It is not the oldest tavern in the city, nor the finest, but to its regulars, it is as reliable as the tides.   The tavern first opened its doors in 1365 DR, founded by a weather-beaten ex-sailor named Sturgis "Longtide" Finn. Sturgis knew his clientele. He'd spent thirty years with a perpetually parched throat and knew that the sailors, dockhands, and fishmongers spilling onto the wharves cared little for plush cushions or elven wine. They wanted something strong, something cheap, and somewhere to sit that wasn't a damp crate. "The Thirsty Throat" was less a name than a diagnosis, and it was an immediate, rowdy success. For fifteen years, Longtide Finn ran the place with a loose grip, letting brawls burn themselves out and watering down the spirits just enough to make a profit but not quite enough to start a riot.   By 1380 DR, Finn was old, tired, and deeply in debt to a few unsavory dockside "businessmen." He was desperate to sell, and his prayers were answered in the form of a Shield Dwarf with a bulging coin purse and a sarcastic demeanor.   This was Fierson McDaggers. Fierson had spent his youth hammering steel in his family's smithy before the call to adventure—and a desire to see the sun for more than an hour a day—led him to join the famed mercenary company, The Warriors of Wolfguard Keep. With them, he’d explored Skullport, cleared out goblin-infested rooms in Undermountain, and earned a respectable name for himself.   When the company disbanded, Fierson returned to Waterdeep and his first love: the forge. He opened "McDaggers' Mettle," a smithy in the Trades Ward, and for a decade he hammered out high-quality tools, serviceable armor, and the occasional custom-ordered war-axe. But the solitary life of a smith no longer suited him. The ringing of the anvil was a lonely sound compared to the clang of swords in a melee and the laughter of his companions around a campfire. He missed the camaraderie, the stories, the "life".   When he heard that the Thirsty Throat Tavern was for sale, something clicked. He sold his smithy for a tidy profit and bought the tavern outright, paying off Finn's debts and sending the relieved human into a comfortable retirement.   The regulars expected the dwarf to fail. Instead, Fierson thrived.   The first thing he did was use his old smithing skills to reinforce the entire establishment. The bar is now banded with black iron. The tables and stools are thick, heavy-planked oak, almost impossible to break and certainly too heavy to throw very far.   The second, and most important change, was the ale. Fierson threw out Finn’s watered-down swill and used his dwarven connections to import barrels of rich, nutty stout from Mirabar and potent dark ale from his homeland. The Thirsty Throat became the "only" place in the Dock Ward where one could get a genuine dwarven brew.   Fierson McDaggers has run The Thirsty Throat for over a century now. He is a firm but fair publican. He’s quick with a gruff joke and quicker to grab the hefty iron-shod cudgel he calls "The Persuader" from under the bar. A few mementos from his adventuring days decorate the walls—a dented shield bearing the wolf 's-head crest of his old company, a minotaur's head mounted over the hearth, and his retired masterwork smith's hammer hanging in a place of honor above the entrance.   Today, The Thirsty Throat is a pillar of the Dock Ward. It’s still loud, it’s still crowded, but it's "safe". The City Watch drinks here, knowing Fierson keeps the peace. Merchants cut deals at its sturdy tables, knowing the dwarven ale will loosen tongues. And adventurers, hearing that the owner is one of their own, often stop in for a rumor, a job, and a drink that's as strong and reliable as the dwarf who pours it.