The Innkeepers Hat

A throwback to another era, the Inn appeared in an enchanted meadow with wildflowers in every size, shape and color. Snapdragons to the west, quarreling in flurries of tiny sparkles with every uttered phrase. To the east are the Daisies, preening in the sunlight and tsking at the Snapdragons. “Uncouth,” says one Daisy to another. “Inconceivably savage,” agrees the third Daisy. Residing next to the Daisies to the north are whorls of Blue Sage, nattering on to each other about this, that and the other thing. To the south lay the Wood Anemone and Snowdrops, whispering their secrets and desires.

Of course, the meadow was filled with many more flowers; but they stayed quiet, minding their own business even as the Snapdragons declared war on each other. Staying silent when the Daisies decided they were going to rule over the rest of the flowers with their high-handed ways. Barely phased when the Blue Sage gossiped about their drooping petals and browning leaves. No, the other wildflowers were content to hide in the background, occasionally speaking to the gentle Wood Anemone and Snowdrops.

The meadow, so full of life, was at the edge of an endless enchanted forest. The trees whispering to each other, giants among the tiny flowers. The wind caressing the tops and making them giggle and titter. The sun beamed down, and the first light of morning shone through the windows of the Inn. The dust sprites danced merrily in the beam that brought them to life. If one listened closely, the sweet songs of these miniature fae could almost be heard. The top of the inn is covered in moss and fallen leaves creating a roof colored with reds, oranges, and golds, a hint of green and brown peeking through.

A combination of sturdy stone blocks with polished oak and birch helped keep the Inn grounded and the roof in its place. Run away roofs are a common problem among innkeepers, or at least they used to be. This Inn had been around for eons, always finding the worst parts of history to surround itself with. Strife and the Inn are bosom buddies. Once it had another name, another job… But now? Now it seemed to be the stepping point between the mortal realm and the remnants of Faerie.

When mortals dream of Faerie, the Seelie Court of Spring and Summer consume them. All sunshine and rainbows, at least that’s what they want you to think. They never see the dark side, the gore behind the flowers. The terror the hides behind smiling masks and forced laughter. After all the mortals who work in the are always happy. Never mind that they are glamoured to believe the sky is green and grass blue, that garbage is sweet nectar. Who cares if a few hundred mortal souls are worked to death because the tiredness coursing through their bodies is disguised as pleasure and contentment.

The Seelie are the Golden Court, untouched by the strife that their darker counterparts bring. The Unseelie are the boogey men, the voices whispering in the ears of mad mortals. The dark shapes that lead travelers astray. Or as the Innkeeper could attest, the Unseelie are the dark monsters of Fae.

When the Inn appeared, the Goblin mound was tasked to investigate it. Much as a faerie mound chooses its ruler, so did the Inn choose its Innkeeper. A young Redcap known as Haemon was plucked from obscurity to serve at the hearth of the mysterious building. For a young goblin, especially a Redcap, this job was a gift from the Gods. A peaceful meadow that seemingly follows all the bloodshed in history, Haemon was ecstatic to be given the post. That was many centuries ago, when his cap was freshly white not yet crusted with the blood of the dying. Every holiday brought about more and more violence. Feuding over land, over women, over livestock…. It was a young goblin’s dream job.

A sigh escaped from betwixt Haemon’s black lips. What was once a fun job had become tedious. In the modern age bloodshed was happening less and less, the so-called civilized countries tended to have wars of wit. Haemon read an article on the “Keyboard Warriors” that replaced the everyday person. Instead of knives and blood, it was a so-called ‘salt-feast’ and hurt egos. Would this be his last season as Innkeeper? The last time his cap would be freshly bloodied on the bodies of dying mortals? Who knows. What Haemon did know was that three blocks away some young mother just received a knife to the heart and her blood sang to him. Oh what a merry Christmas he will have.