Beyond the wide, heavy oaken door, golden warm light escaped through the cracks and below the door, spilling into the darkness of the winter night.
Across the road, from within the darkened forest, the light appeared as a welcoming beacon to any weary traveller. Many heavy feet had crossed this road, seeking comfort and shelter within the warm and cozy halls. The walls were worn and used, with dashes of fresh paint just enough to cover the rough patches. The windows, square and made of thick glass, were crafted to hold the heat within. A low hanging weather-beaten sign creaked in the wind by the door, barely readable, marking the place. Dim lights in coarsely crafted lanterns lit up the very old inn.
A home for many travellers and salesmen, the Wayfarerâs Inn served them all. From rangers traversing the forests and nearby mountains to merchants seeking a hot supper, all found solace in this soothing little place. Steeds of different breeds were reined to the posts in the stables that stood sheltered to the left of the inn, its doors firmly shut and barring the light like the inn itself: welcoming and warm.
The steps towards the oaken door were crude and varied in size, a testament to hasty repairs. Some steps were large, others small, but all were stable enough to set your foot safely and heave yourself closer to the door. One, two, three wooden steps led to a big rock, then two more wooden steps up. The oaken door was old and weather-battered, warm to the touch and heavy to the feel. A crude handle made of iron held the door shut against outside troubles such as winds, rains, cold, and worries.
With a loud crank, the handle would give in; the door creaked open by its own weight. Pulling it open was no problem, but closing it was a different task.
The first gaze inside revealed multiple old fireplaces, cheerful folk of the region, people travelling to find a new life or running away from their old one. The next quick gaze fell upon two heavily armored guards, who granted you a glare as the door you struggled with finally closed shut.
The heavy slam of the oaken door shook the door frame loose of some dust and perhaps a stray mouse joined the scurry of beetles, as the crude door handle hinged back in its place by the force of the slam. The doorâs hinges were crude ironwork, likely crafted by travellers who had fallen low on currency to pay for their meal or stay.
The two armored guards, clearly welcomed and hired by the innkeeper, nodded firmly and returned to their table. It wasnât big, a table for two with finely padded chairs, a range of weaponry and a shield leaning against it, and a few heavy chests lined up at the nearby wall. Their duty was clear: maintain peace and enforce the no-weapons rule.
Your eyes wandered over the many chests filled with various sorts of weaponry or would-be weapons. You let your dagger and sheath fall into the far left chest, clanking against a large axe before rolling to the bottom. The guards changed their stern expressions to smiles, raising their mugs to welcome you.
The guards, clad in mail and leather, were northerners known for not succumbing easily to alcohol but holding their job at heart. Even if they were just passing through for a few nights, a few coins still made for an honorable job.
The floorboards creaked as you stepped past the chests of weapons and other imaginative âtoolsâ, their weight pressing down on the old boards. A few more steps brought your boots onto a soft rug, a long, wide rug running through the main section of the building to the greatest fireplace. The fringes of the rug were matted, its original color barely visible. The rug, however, looked clean and smooth, likely washed regularly by the innâs maidens.
Clouds of sweet-scented pipe smoke hovered above the first few tables, mingling with the foreign merchantsâ own products of tobacco. Although still a new trade within the small village, many showed interest in other kinds than those already grown here. Accompanying the clouds of new scents were the light tunes of a piano and violin, playing in simple harmony. The man at the piano, smiling wide in his grey tattered suit, and his daughter, playing the violin, created a cheerful yet calm atmosphere.
As you step past the first few sets of tables, each set for two, four, and even the longest, grand table for 24 guests, its benches having a scattering of guests scooted along the various sections of the benches, leaning over their own meals or sharing a good story. The atmosphere welcomed the many tales of travellers and even displayed small trophies from some.
The antlers of a rampaging market stag hung proudly, a mighty creature that had lost its way and suddenly found itself fending off fruit salesmen and trashing market wares. It took Bjorhan, the local smith, four swipes with his mighty sword to finally lay the stag to rest, and a meal was formed in its honor. Next to the antlers hung a cracked lute, a well-known story serving as a cautionary tale: âDonât be a bard.â The saying warned against falling in love without certainty of reciprocation, as the poor bard learned when struck by the local butcherâs daughter with his own lute.
Many more items adorned the main beam of the inn; intact swords, as well as broken ones, animal heads, tools, armors, and even a small funny red shoe which the stable master claims was dropped by a Gnoll as he chased it away from the horses and cows.
The floorboards creaked to a halt as you stood at an overlapping of carpets, another carpet joining the path down the right side of the inn to a small lounge where farmers always had their last drink of the week. To the left, the floor met a solid counter of a bar and servicing desk, stools lined along the counter welcoming people for a quick drink or a stay for the night.
As you approached the counter, the tantalizing scent of roasting honey-glazed pig struck you. Speared and sizzling in the great fire, it spread a hunger-inducing aroma across the inn. Juices dripped into a pan, occasionally striking the flames and causing them to sizzle and burst. Servings had already been taken, but the pig could easily feed many more mouths.
Regretfully turning away from the sight, you headed towards the counter. Pushing a stool aside, your hand ran along the brass edge of the counter until it found a bell. Almost playfully tempted, you raised your hand to strike it but halted mid-air, noticing a sign above the bell: âA strike of the bell calls all for a mug of ale.â
A chuckle came from beyond the counter, followed by the screeching sound of wood dragged along the floorboards. A struggled breath revealed your host for the night, a short figure no taller than your waist: a dwarf. Dwarves were becoming more common in this region, but bar-keep Helmurr was one of the first ones here. Standing on his trusted stool, his brown beard was the first thing you noticed as you bowed politely, Helmurr greeted you warmly.
âWelcome, friend! You look a bit worn out, eh? Need some food, drink, and a comfy bed?â he said in a deep but cheerful voice, fishing up a mug from under the counter.
âThough, youâll have to wait for a bed. Theyâre all taken by a group of fur hunters,â he continued, still cheerful. âBut donât worry, the fire can keep you warm. Itâs no weather to go out in, so have an ale and sit down.â
He pushed a heavy mug across the counter, its foam minimal and the ale as refreshing as any traveller could hope for. Others sat along the counter, engaging in trades and conversations. Stepping back, you observed the diverse crowd and various tables, even spotting a few corners with couches, normally occupied by the richer patrons. In the furthest corner, a young nobleman and his companions sat around a small fire pit carved into the stone table, their faces lit by the crackling flames. Further away slumbered the âmonster of the forestâ, a group of kids informed you as they ran past, to you, it could almost sound like a monster, but with keen eyes, you see it is the snoring husk of a tired lumber jack sleeping off the bad weather on another couch, and perhaps some excessive consumption of ale.
In the left section of the inn, the ceiling seemed lower, requiring you to duck at times to avoid hitting your head on the low-hanging lights. In a corner by the windows, a worn padded chair stood empty, inviting a tired soul like yourself. Your boots scraped along the floor as you approached the chair, finally allowing yourself to sink into its soft embrace with a sigh of relief.
A soft voice broke the calmness of the corner, pulling your weary eyes open from near slumber. One of the maidens stood bent over your little secluded table, offering a welcoming smile. She had fine golden hair with a white bow tying a bundle of her locks into a small tail at the right, and wore what would have been a more than lovely dress if its colors had not faded from the cloth. Its shape supported with a few straps of leather, and accenting her welcoming bosom along with the enticing reveal of her milky skin. The low cut of her dress was mostly there to catch the attention of weary travellers, mostly for the tips. The gleam in her blue eyes was full of energy, and her soft red painted lips kept a wide welcoming smile.
âHelmurr told me you looked a little worn, so I brought you something to fill you up for tonight,â she said softly, placing down a wooden tray. It rattled for a moment, sounding fully stacked, it could easily look like a meal for two steaming under the covering cloth. She breathed out a sigh of relief as nothing had been spilled - yet.
Upon the tray were a wide selection of choices that the innkeeper and his wife normally conjured up for the many visiting guests day in and out, the menu never being the same as the day before, and the bellies never being empty by closing time.
The tray was laden to its edges with enough food to sate even the biggest man. A second mug of ale had joined your first one, which was not even half empty. A bowl of chicken soup with shredded chicken, corn and carrots floating around in the golden creamy broth were neighbours to a hearty plate of spit-roasted honey-glazed pork, fresh potatoes, which the maiden was keenly willing to brag about coming from their own garden, together with the grilled carrots, green beans, and a helping of pickled gherkins and onions - a small jug of deliciously smelling gravy served on the side.
The last plate offered a warm pie filled with chopped root vegetables, beef chunks, and smoked sausages, the light dough making a lovely golden crust around the whole pie and on top, glazed with beef dripping, the flavor baked into the crust - it was a mouth watering sight.
She smiled, giving you a gentle nudge and a playful wink before walking away. Her hips swayed seductively from side to side as her final words came out in a sing-song tone, âEnjoy your meal.â Your eyes followed her before she vanished into the crowd, granting you a moment to bask in the feast that the innkeeper and his family had presented you.
You licked your lips, hiding a run of drool as you remembered how your long journey had been feasting on both your energy, and spirit. Fishing out the necessary coins from your inner pocketâfive silver coins and twenty-nine coppersâyou set them on the table.
The coin should be enough to cover your hunger and thirst, you mumble to yourself as you finally guide your knife and fork through your first victim. The golden crust of the pie gave way to your advances, cracking open its shell, letting out a gorgeous aroma that could almost spell out, âWelcome homeâ, in your tired mind.