In the north of the kingdom of Alçon there is an inn that sits at the edge of the elven forest of Greenwood. Many mysterious travels come through this inn, and share their stories with the innkeeper. These are their tales. In the prologue, the innkeeper recounts a bit about himself and provides some context for the stories to come.
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Transcription:
The Inn at the Edge of Greenwood. Prologue. A Letter of Explanation.
Dear friend. I feel obligated to begin by assuring you that I do not truly know whether this is a story or not with an ending. For much of that which I'm about to recount may seem endless at times and perfectly suited to the rotation of the sun and the turn of the seasons and many other wonderful infinities. I think it will end at some point, as this is but a verse in the great song of the world. Though I hope a verse of some substance and not a little warmth and comfort. My father used to say you become that which you steep in. Meaning the people, places, and above all stories you choose to surround yourself with shape and mold your character.
Much like a chisel and mallet shape a log. If this is true then I am made of shingles and beams, moss and ivy, wine and good cheese. I've grown and lived all my life in the area known as the Northern Woodlands sometimes called the North Clearings. Anyway you have it we are north and that means cold winters, summers bursting with life, and breath-stealing sunsets.
More north of us even is the Greenwood, but that is mostly elven territory not somewhere we travel. Unfortunate really, there used to be some trade developing and I heard tensions were easing but that seems to have taken a turn for the worse. I've never had the pleasure of hosting an elf at the inn. Hopefully one day. Ah, yes, the inn. My inn. The inn at the Edge of Greenwood. It was built by my grandfather, finished by my father, and now that he is gone I take care of it. It's a big job, mother and sister help immensely. The garden and stables out back alone seem to be enough to swallow a whole day sometimes let alone the cleaning and tending bar and cooking and greeting patrons. But by the planes I wouldn't have it any other way.
The people who pass through this inn are so wonderfully diverse. Travelers from distant lands, adventurers looking for wealth and glory, not one or two criminals on the run I suspect either. No matter to me, my job as I see it is to provide a place where any weary soul can lay their head down for a night and have one less worry in a world that is full of them. And the stories these travelers tell, oh stories. This is why I'm writing you friend, to retell some of these stories. The ones that stuck with me. Because if we don't share stories they die with us and stories should be immortal. I hope you'll indulge the odd rambling about my days here at the inn from time to time as well. The simplest way for me to recount these stories was to keep a journal of sorts and one does get contemplative from time to time and go off on tangents. I'll do what I can to be to the point.
I hope you're well, dear friend, and that these stories and letters provide you some comfort during your trials. Should you ever be up north you're always welcome at the inn. I'm sure you have a story or two to tell yourself. Till then.
