House of Stories

The night carried a crisp chill, a gentle bite softened by the fresh air weaving its way through layers of thick clothing. There was something in the atmosphere, an excitement, an expectation as if the wind itself whispered secrets of what lay ahead, yet there was uncertainty in the air, and those walking knew they were heading toward the unknown.

Above, the moon reigned in full glory, its silvery glow illuminating the path as if it had been laid out by unseen hands. Faces could be seen clearly despite the late hour, revealing expressions that couldn't be concealed because of the full moon, and some even glanced at each other as if the few seconds were enough to see their excitement as they moved in one direction. The town was largely asleep, its streets lined with closed shops and darkened windows, but those who could afford the luxury of the night were making their way towards the grandest place in town, the House of Stories.

Some walked with veiled faces; others wore wide-brimmed hats that obscured their identities. A few arrived in carriages, their presence signaled by the steady rhythm of horse hooves against the cobbled road. Even their guards, loyal shadows at their sides, kept their faces concealed beneath thick veils. Their secrecy was not unwarranted; the House of Stories was no ordinary inn.

A structure of grandeur and prestige, the House of Stories stood as the crowning jewel of Jo's town. Built with both elegance and purpose, it was the only attraction that set the town apart from the countless others dotting the land. Its high fences ensured that the extreme wealth of its patrons remained separate from the middle class, though everyone in the town, rich and poor alike felt its influence. It was not a den of crime or debauchery, but a place of luxury, an establishment that catered to every imaginable indulgence. It was precisely this promise of exclusivity and entertainment that made some go to great lengths to mask their presence upon arrival. Many that arrived had to leave most of their servants and guards at the door because the luxury didn't extend to them; House of Stories had its loyal servants and guards, and any noble that wasn't comfortable could only be allowed with few servants and guards if they could afford it. The other servants and guards who weren't allowed in would be moved to another part of the inn with no entertainment, just a place to eat and sleep and let loose whether by sparring or drinking their fill while the House of Stories guards and servants stationed to their quarters had to keep an eye on them.

The House of Stories belonged to the Magistrate, a man whose lineage had cultivated wealth for centuries. When he was assigned to govern his hometown, he saw more than just a sleepy village; he saw potential. He envisioned a place that would draw the rich and powerful, a place that would transform the town into a hub of culture and prosperity.

Upon his arrival, the only lodging available was a small, struggling inn, run by an aging couple who barely managed to keep it afloat. The land surrounding it was vast yet underutilized. Decisively, the Magistrate offered a sack of gold, an amount so generous that the couple accepted without hesitation. They signed over the property, their thoughts filled with dreams of sending their only son to the capital, where he could learn the art of weaving yarn into fine cloth, a trade that had grown immensely profitable. With their newfound wealth, they secured a modest home and a future that no longer depended on the uncertain success of their inn.

Within eleven moons, the House of Stories rose from the ground, a monument of wealth and ambition. It was strategically placed near the main road, ensuring that travelers and nobles alike would have no choice but to notice its grandeur. To further solidify its prominence, the Magistrate funded the construction of additional inns across town and even commissioned the creation of a path that extended towards the next village. The investment was considerable, but it soon ,proved wise, nobles traveling through the region considered the House of Stories a necessary stop on their journeys.

The establishment became a world of its own, filled with vibrant entertainment. Music filled the halls, drums and flutes weaving together rhythms that stirred the soul. Dancers, dressed in shimmering silks, moved like flowing water, mesmerizing all who watched. Some artists captured fleeting moments with ink and brush, creating portraits of guests who wished to immortalize their presence in the inn's history.

For the common folk, the House of Stories was a dream. Many toiled relentlessly, saving their earnings for a single night of indulgence within its walls. Young men and women adorned themselves in their finest garments, hoping to catch a glimpse of the opulence that defined the lives of the wealthy. Others sought employment within the inn, some even willing to work without pay, just for the chance to witness the grand spectacle firsthand.

The nobles, in turn, valued the exclusivity of the experience. Reservations were made through messengers on horseback, often days in advance. Those who sought the highest level of service found their rooms meticulously prepared, the finest linens laid out, and not a single detail overlooked. Most times, rooms were left unoccupied despite demand, only to be denied to those who arrived without prior booking. The strategy was simple but effective, this deliberate scarcity heightened the allure, making the House of Stories seem all the more elusive and prestigious, making the nobles more eager to fully book a room few days to their arrival before everywhere gets booked without knowing there were always rooms and it was the Magistrate who made the room sometimes unavailable upon arrive just to create the atmosphere that they were the busiest inn.

It had not always been called the House of Stories. Initially, it bore the name Hometown Jo's Inn, a simple title that did little to capture its essence. The transformation came when the Magistrate encountered an old, homeless man who sat by the town's main junction, telling tales that entranced his listeners. The Magistrate, recognizing the power of storytelling, recruited the man, cleaned him up, and gave him a mysterious new identity. His role was simple yet significant, he was to be the heart of the inn's most anticipated event.

The pinnacle of the House of Stories' allure was a special night known as The Light of the House. It was held only when the moon was full, a night when the inn welcomed travelers from far and wide. The main attraction was the storyteller now revered and whispered about as a goblin, though he was very much a man. He would sit upon the grandest stage, his voice weaving tales of terror and wonder with a mask covering his identity just to add to the mysterious night, while a troupe of actors brought his words to life through haunting performances. The audience, regardless of status or wealth, would sit spellbound, drawn into a world crafted purely from imagination and words. Next was a skilled singer who made the audience's hearts race. Most felt blessed to witness the night, some even welling up with tears. Then came the dance an alluring performance that captivated the stage. A skilled drummer followed, along with many more performances.

As the years passed, the House of Stories became the heart of the town, a place where secrets were whispered over candlelit dinners, where fortunes were won and lost in a single evening, and where the lines between myth and reality blurred. Some guests swore that they had seen the god of fortune drifting through the halls, remnants of long-forgotten tales brought to life, and they felt they were about to win a jackpot. Others claimed that the storyteller was no ordinary man, that he had lived far longer than any mortal should, sustained by the very stories he told.

But the true magic of the House of Stories was not in the opulence of its walls or the wealth of its patrons, it was in the stories themselves. For every traveler who passed through its doors, every noble who sought refuge within its halls, and every commoner who dreamed of stepping foot inside, the House of Stories became a legend. And legends, once told, never fade.

As time went on, the House of Stories continued to evolve. Special performances were introduced, where visiting poets recited verses under candlelight and musicians composed melodies inspired by the whispered dreams of guests. Rooms were expanded, hidden passages constructed, and secret chambers designed for those seeking private affairs away from prying eyes. A garden filled with rare flowers was added, where guests could sit under the moonlight and listen to the rustling of the wind as if nature itself had become part of the storytelling.

More than just an inn, the House of Stories became a sanctuary, a place where people came not just for rest but for something greater a glimpse into the extraordinary. And so, through the centuries, it endured, standing tall against the shifting sands of time, waiting to embrace those who sought a night wrapped in mystery and wonder.

Tonight, everyone seemed to be moving toward the House of Stories, drawn by a rumor that it was about to tell the legendary tale of The Next General.