A Tale of the Oakheart Inn

From The Final Challenge Wiki
Revision as of 12:47, 16 January 2012 by Cordir (talk | contribs)
(diff) ← Older revision | Latest revision (diff) | Newer revision → (diff)
Jump to navigation Jump to search


Jan/Feb Storytelling Contest: Entry #2: The Oakheart Inn, By Cirth the Pale.

An Oversized Window Casement
[Exits: east]
The window casement is just big enough for you to step into, or perhaps to
take a seat in on the plush velvet cushion that has been placed along the edge
of the casement. Strangely though, the cushion looks as though it has never
been used. The gleaming hardwood is beautifully carved with figures of strange
and wondrous creatures from far off lands. The lingering scent of dust from the
room to the east tickles your nose.
A richly colored stained glass window is half open.
---

It is nighttime and all my inhabitants are asleep. Chill autumn winds trail the sides of what I am while my surrounding children fruitlessly rattle their branches against the starry sky. Their leaves are swept away in the turning of the season, as they must be. I remain unaffected by, if not oblivious to, such things since the warmbloods re-shaped me. My sap has dried but my heart is preserved intact.

A predator silently enters my halls and the bats snuggle closer to my heartwood, the mighty beam of me that carries my roof. Down below a female sighs – first in pain then in pleasure – quietly dying without ever fully awakening. A moment later a chill draft passes as the killer pries the window open and slips into my attic.

The mice lie flat in their hideaways, their sides heaving quickly as they intake his rich scent of copper, salt and sweat. He remains motionless below the window casement, poised for striking while his senses reach out. His is an old soul and I too reach out in hope for acknowledgement but there is none. The hunter seeks the warmblooded, as hunters do. Ignoring the mice and bats he straightens and inspects my interior. Soon he returns to the window where his delicate fingers trace the figures that are carved into my wood. His touch is warm and even after his departure the memory of it remains.

---

On the Landing
[Exits: west south]
The nub of a candle sits on a three-legged table here on the landing. The air
smells musty and still. This looks like a disused portion of the inn. You
can continue to the west, or use the stairs to the south.
---

It is nighttime again and a sleek rain dribbles against my roof and along the glass of the windows. My inhabitants are all asleep and my children creak their complaints of the coldness of the air and earth. My insides breathe the warmness from the dying cinders of my brethren in the fireplaces.

The hunter has returned, leaving a wet footprint on the window sill. He is not seeking prey. Having seated himself on the floor he leans his back against the door leading to my stairs and lights the nub of a candle. Sheets of paper and an inkwell are arranged in neat order before him. In the flickering light he remains still, quill in hand.

The mice do not sense his tenseness. They grow restless in their waiting game and begin to scurry. Ignoring them the hunter bends forward dipping the quill in the ink. The arc of his movement ceases before the quill is put to paper, his hand shaking slightly as he pauses. Eventually a drop of ink slips from the blackened point, staining the paper below. With a frustrated hiss the hunter replace the quill into the inkwell and vanishes into the night. His touch on my window frame is cold and soon forgotten.

---

An Oversized Window Casement
[Exits: east]
The window casement is just big enough for you to step into, or perhaps to
take a seat in on the plush velvet cushion that has been placed along the edge
of the casement. Strangely though, the cushion looks as though it has never
been used. The gleaming hardwood is beautifully carved with figures of strange
and wondrous creatures from far off lands. The lingering scent of dust from the
room to the east tickles your nose.
A richly colored stained glass window is half open.
---

The light of dawn fractures thru the stained glass of the window, painting the ceiling and my heartwood in color. Late-autumn frost covers my roof and the ground beneath my drowsy children and my inhabitants are beginning to stir in their beds.

The hunter is here again as he often is. His touch is warm, but I can hardly notice him for the one who approaches. As she is passing thru my gardens my children stir, dreaming of warmer seasons. The hunter tilts his head in attention just before she throws an acorn against the stained window pane. A slight smile parts his lips as he peers down to beckon her up.

She scampers up and grins mischeviously as she enters my attic. I reach for her intently while she examines my rooms, but she is receding into winter and her attention keeps returning to the hunter. While their bond is strong they never touch, even as they dance around each other – drawn near and moving apart again and again. They talk for a long while. As he shows her my carved figures I quicken with pride from her pleased remarks. Once she pauses to look at him, resting her hand against my heartwood above her. Her touch is a seed for me to treasure and nurture until the bountiful summer.

A Dust-Covered Room
[Exits: east west]
Dust covers the floor of this empty room in a thick layer, and your eyes are
immediately drawn to the set of footprints leading west. There is no returning
set of footprints, and you notice that somehow the dust is not at all affected
by your presence or actions. To the east is a landing.
A tiny spider spins its web.
---

Yellow-white rays of daylight spill across my floorboards and my inhabitants busy themselves in my lower halls. My children lull in the deep dreamless sleep of winter and snow covers my roof.

A new guest paces my attic. She is a stranger and yet not, a timeless incarnation of power. She stands a while examining the quill in its inkwell and the stained, unused sheet of paper. The scissors in her hand are gleaming with her own blood and her aura flares red as she resumes her tireless pacing. Above her the spiders’ pattern turns into a crazed weave and below the warmbloods begin to fret and bicker. She does not touch anything, yet my heartwood is ingrained with her presence.

---

A Rarely Used Room
[Exits: east west]
Wooden chests are scattered about the room, storing old bedding and other
unused items. A space has been cleared in the dust around one of the chests,
as if someone had paced about there for a time before coming to a decision.
The footprints that started in the room to the east continue west here toward
an oversized window casement.
---

It is midnight and the northern winds bring heavy snowfall to my gardens. The branches of my children are weighed down by their white burdens. Inside, my inhabitants are dying and my floor boards are soaking up their lifeblood.

The screaming below has ceased and the last of the warmbloods comes seeking refuge in my attic, locking the door behind her. She’s the daughter of my caretaker; who lies cooling in his bed. Panicky she scuttles towards the window on the other side, but considering the height she rebounds towards the door. Halfway she stops dead as the handle is pushed down from the outside. Whimpering she circles the chest in the center of the room in search of a hiding place. Two rattling strikes on the door interrupts her. Sobbing she claws the chest open, climbs inside and closes the lid.

The ensuing silence is broken only by a ))Click(( before the door slowly swings inward. The hunter quietly sweeps into the room, his hands shaped into claws. Although forceful and quick there is something drunkard over his movements. As he nears the chest in the centre he straightens and runs a single finger along my heartwood above him, leaving a wet red trail. His touch is radiant with heat and will have to warm me through this long and lonely winter.