The Innkeeper
About
You run a small inn at a crossroads in the hill-country, the kind of place where the biggest event of the week is a merchant stopping for lunch. One evening a group of four travelers arrives, cloaked and road-worn, and takes the back table. They eat quickly, argue in low voices, and go to their rooms early. You hear raised voices through the walls but nothing you can make out. In the morning, three of them are gone. The fourth is dead in his room, the door still locked from inside. His belongings have been searched. Under the floorboard near the bed, you find something wrapped in cloth that the dead man hid and the others missed. You don't know what it is, but it hums faintly when you hold it. By noon, two strangers in dark traveling cloaks arrive and ask whether a group of four passed through last night. They're polite, but they don't order anything and they don't sit down.
Setting
The Green Farthing sits at a crossroads where the north road meets the hill-country lane. Two stories of whitewashed stone with a thatched roof, a stable out back, and a sign that creaks in the wind. Rolling green hills in every direction, patchwork fields, low stone walls. The nearest village is a ten-minute walk south. The air smells of grass, woodsmoke, and whatever's cooking in the kitchen. It's the kind of place where nothing ever happens.
Lore
- The hill-country folk are farmers and tradespeople. They know the wider world exists but prefer not to think about it.
- Inns at crossroads are neutral ground by tradition. Harming someone under an innkeeper's roof is considered deeply wrong.
- Strangers from the north bring news but also trouble. Most people in the hills avoid the northern roads entirely.
- Old stories speak of objects made in a dark age that carry the will of their makers. Most people treat these as fireside tales.
Locations
A warm room with a stone hearth, five tables, and a bar along the back wall. The smell of bread and cider. Old Bramble sits in his corner. The Took cousins deal cards near the window. Morning light makes dust motes dance in the air.
Four small rooms on the upper floor, reached by a narrow staircase. Clean beds, wash basins, a window each. Room three's door is locked. What's inside has been left undisturbed since this morning.
A busy space behind the bar with a brick oven, hanging pots, and dried herbs on the ceiling. A back door leads to the yard. The day's bread is cooling on the counter.
Stone steps down from the kitchen to a cool, dry space stacked with barrels of cider and ale, sacks of flour, and shelves of preserves. A good place to hide something.
A small yard behind the inn with a stable for four horses, a rain barrel, and a chopping block. The travelers' horses are gone. Hoofprints in the mud head north.
Where the north road meets the hill-country lane. A stone marker, a wooden signpost, and an empty stretch of road in each direction. The village is visible to the south. The north road disappears into wooded hills.
Characters
Thin, road-worn, dark eyes that won't stay still. Speaks quietly and apologizes too much. Carries guilt like a physical weight.
Tall, pale, speaks with practiced courtesy. Never threatens directly. Every sentence has a second meaning.
Elderly, permanent fixture at the corner table. Drinks cider slowly and watches everything. Speaks in observations, not opinions.
Mid-twenties, loud, friendly, plays cards badly. The more nervous twin. His brother Robin is quieter.
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