Old Hasthaven

Old Hasthaven is a port town to the northwest of Greenwards. It is a principle crossing point to New Hasthaven avoiding the longer trek by road to cross the Hast river, via the bridge at Pemblebury.

Old Hasthaven clings to the coast like a stubborn barnacle—salt-worn, wind-beaten, and proud. Once a jewel of the Greenwards coast, it was one of the principal trading ports in the region, its docks filled with merchant cogs and coastal caravels from across the seas. For centuries, Hasthaven as it was then, was a name spoken with respect: a centre of commerce, shipbuilding, and diplomacy.

But that time has passed.

The rise of New Hasthaven, just across the strait, has drawn away nearly all of Hasthaven’s lifeblood, earning it the Old moniker. Built with "new money" and deep-water engineering, the newer port dwarfs its predecessor with bigger shipyards, towering cranes, and seemingly mile-long piers that welcome vessels too large for Old Hasthaven’s aging harbour.

Today, Old Hasthaven survives not as a trading titan, but as a fishing village and transit point, where ferries and barges shuttle goods and travellers to New Hasthaven. Its Old Docks, once the heart of a thriving mercantile empire, now host only the creaking boats of fishermen and the steady comings and goings of ferry crews. Seaweed sways beneath half-submerged pilings, and rust clings to the old mooring rings like dried blood.

Along Granary Row, the once-mighty storehouses stand mostly empty—shadows of their former selves. A few have been turned into sailmakers’ shops or repurposed by fishmongers and net-weavers. Many more are abandoned, their signs faded and doors swollen shut from decades of coastal damp. Only the carved merchant crests, barely visible beneath moss and brine, hint at the town’s storied past. A few hang on, stockpiling goods before being ferried across to the larger port.

Still, there is life here.

The locals gather at The Black Raven, a squat, dark-timbered tavern that squats at the end of Wharf Street. Its sign—an iron raven with wings outstretched—swings in the salt wind, creaking like a ship’s hull. Inside, the fire is always burning, and the ale is strong and bitter. It’s a place where old sea dogs grumble about better days, ferrymen toast smooth crossings, and the occasional traveller, delayed by weather or tide, listens to tales that feel more legend than memory.

Old Hasthaven may no longer command fleets or fortune, but it endures—salt-stained, sea-scarred, and full of quiet defiance. It watches across the water at New Hasthaven’s glittering lights, not with envy, but with the weary pride of one who remembers what it is to rule the tides.