The Inn of Éamon Bayle is an area in the Dragonland Chronicles.
A blessed sight for the weary traveler, old Éamon's Inn has room for every man, elf or dwarf with a dry throat or empty stomach. Its roaring hearth, ripe tenderloins and its famous foaming ale has made the inn a gathering point for all men of the Southland Dales.
They say that Éamon is older than the inn itself, which has stood since at least the time when men were carving out a meager existence among the ridges at Brisingard, and when the elven ruins at Westmar rose proudly and majestically like ivory spears. Quick of wit, always full of song and modestly robed, the old man gives no hint to what the eldest elves whisper of in secret tongues; that he is as ancient as the eldest acorns and nuts of Val'inthor, and came to the southlands with an army to pacify the dales in a time when wild beasts ravaged the lands from the coast to the old forest.
But such talk seem like idle chatter and mere heresay for those who have swung their flagon and stoops with old Éamon Bayle, who seems never troubled by the comings and goings of the Realms, as he uncorks yet another of his mammoth barrels of ale. Only his elven bracelet and his noble black mare, which emerald eyes seem not of any known horse-kind, support the whispered elven tales to which Éamon would merely scoff and sing his favourite song; "All the mead and all the ale men can drink is here for sale! Vast as the sea and deep as the dale, the barrels of ale at the Inn of Éamon Bayle!"
Excerpt from ‘The Fortunes of the West’, ANNO CXLIII A.W.F II of Human reckoning.