It was an Inn like any other and unlike any other at the same time. One could travel here by more roads and paths than seemed countable and depart by the same. It was near what was simply known as The Crossroads, which rather unsurprisingly was indeed the name of a place where the many roads and paths converged and diverged, coming and going, to and from here and there. Like the, ahem, cleverly monikered Inn of the Crossroads, The Crossroads proper was both like and unlike any other similarly named and described junction of lanes and byways. To most is was like, to the rare and unique, it too was like them, different, more, something beyond imagination and in some ways, requiring imagination to fully appreciate its meaning and place in a world of many worlds.
The Inn had a fine and well stocked tavern and dining hall, rooms that offered rest and comfort, pleasing and relaxing, the sort of place an author might go to refresh their muse and seek ideas and inspiration both gentle quiet, or if the company was right, torrid and ecstatic. It was a place that offered much that was needed and desired, yet demanded payment in both coin and attention. In truth its most common feature was that one found at the Inn the treasure, horror, delight, boredom or inspiration equal to that which they both brought with themselves and gave to the experience of staying there. The same was utterly true of the avenues and possibilities that lead away from the Inn and the Crossroads, more ventured lead to far more found, while little or none offered or risked returned the same or far less.
To the ordinary all of this, the Inn, the pathways, the possibilities were just that, ordinary and loathsomely so in every way, while to those who were something more, who by blood and spirit were something far beyond the ordinary, whether in ways bright, dark or maddeningly indescribable, then each moment and step was extraordinary. Every crossroads is about choices made and not made, the path taken and not, those who sought the road less traveled and those who marched in step with the many down the boulevard of sameness, yet with each of those merely one of what was, or once was at least, an infinite number of possibilities and adventures to be had or even to be done in by. Even the most unique and powerful were not truly immortal, death awaited all living creatures, even those whose natural end was measured in centuries and millennia rather than days and years. Perhaps the better question, the one asked upon the tapestry sewn and crafted long ago and adorning the entranceway to the Inn said it best,
“Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass…It is about learning to dance in the rain.”
Passing the tapestry as she entered the Inn’s doorway, the Innkeeper, a woman of warm and deep beauty, with dark chestnut hair and almond shaped eyes of a matching hue and filled with both unfathomable curiosity and sparkling intellect, shed her wrap and shawl as she hung them upon a wooden peg like those used by her guests and staff alike. She moved with an air of approachable authority, a set of opposing qualities in most that seemed perfectly natural to be paired in the essence and nature of who, and what, she was.
“Have the guides arrived in full yet, Morlen?” she asked the Maitre’D, a hale and middle aged fellow of pleasantly abiding humor and incredibly abiding efficiency and efficacy, as he might also easily be called the groundskeeper, bartender and watchman of the one place in all of existence where he found that he belonged.
“Three so far, the storms are making travel arrangements tenuous at best, but I have no doubt they will arrive shortly, Lady Coral,’ he replied even as she took a small, but thick towel and dabbed and caressed here and there upon her dark mane and sumptuous form to draw away the moisture that the light rain nearest the Inn had visited upon her.
“Very well then, see that the needs of each are seen to, but be watchful knowing that peace between them is hardly a guarantee. Drinks are on the house until our guides and guests have come and gone, buoy their spirits with those found in the mead and vintages we offer, and hope for the best. Given what awaits them ahead, it is the least we can do.”
He nodded in agreement and promise, though he knew well that her gracefully powerful presence alone was enough to keep the peace and raise the spirits of all, he also knew that the lady’s words were filled with wisdom and thought beyond the obvious and easily seen. Indeed, her wisdom was greatest in knowing that what lay ahead for all of them was utterly unknowable, allowing for chance and choice, danger and fortune, luck and intricate plotting and planning all to play a part in what lay ahead for each who chose to continue on past the crossroads and all that they both offered and demanded of each. Morlen saw to his duties and her wishes alike, even as his thoughts were filled with the fantastical tales told by prior guests, always wondering if such happenings and creatures and places as they spoke of could be true.
Coral retired to her smallish suite and office, sitting at her desk to write out notes in elegant script even as thunder peeled and lightning crackled in the distance and the rum of raindrops upon the Inn's wooden roof above her head became louder and more frenetic as another storm approached even before the vestiges of the last fully departed. She thought of the tapestry as she penned her thoughts upon the paper, taking a moment to sip from her glass of red wine and look out the window, a more than lovely and intriguing smile painting her winsome expression. She loved the rain, dancing in it whenever she could…would they, could they learn to live life in that same way when the rain was so intense and the lightning so deadly and beautiful all at once? Or would some simply seek an easy and hedonistic shelter waiting for the storm to pass, never realizing that instead it would be their lives passing away by instead? She hummed a song from a long ago adventure of her own and returned to her task with vigor and hope for each to and for whom she wrote.