Bankrupt Cracklings, a tavern so remote it sat near the edge even of the Hidden Valley District.
Of course, even if old Burton, the tavern owner, had never gone to school, he would not have given his establishment such a name.
In fact, like the regulars here, he had once worked at one of the several nearby factories.
After quitting the slaughterhouse called "Hum Hum," he used the meager savings he had scraped together over half a lifetime to open a little shop called "Crackling Drip" at the crossroads between several factories.
Its main offerings were naturally all kinds of fat trimmings and scraps of meat, which he acquired cheaply from his former employer through old connections.
He tossed them into a huge iron pot that was never washed and fried them again until they were crisp and golden-brown, then scattered a handful of coarse salt and pungent black pepper over them.
Paired with the crudely brewed, blended liquor workers called "Mud Ditch Brew," it was how factory employees, after getting off work, took in fat and calories and numbed themselves with alcohol at the lowest cost of living.
Three pitiful Copper Nails could buy a small dish of cracklings, and two more would fill a cup with Mud Ditch Brew.
The scorched fragrance of grease mingled with the harsh stink of cheap alcohol, lingering year after year in this low-ceilinged shop.
At first, much like the factory workers who chose to come here, they had no spare spending power, and old Burton could barely keep himself fed and clothed.
But as some adventurers began exploring the nearby ruins, unfamiliar faces started appearing among the shop's main clientele.
Of course, the adventurers who came here were usually no great shakes either.
After all, Fernandez had far too many lucrative commissions,