THE INNKEEPER a short narrative

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I gave up adventuring not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

Actually, that's a misleading way to describe it; I'll clarify myself. It's not as if I was too old for the trade - I had only one score and two summers under my belt when I hung up the blade. Nor was it that I had lost the ability to fight.

Rather, it was that I lost the will. After all, it takes something special - some undeniable drive coursing through the blood - to take up the trade of adventure. Any bumpkin can spend his life sowing and threshing on his father's farm - it requires nothing extraordinary of him. But that man needs something extra to be an adventurer - a deep-seated desire to quest for more. It's a sensation I've always struggled to put into words, but perhaps it is best described in this manner: you know what your path in life will be, and it isn't planting potatoes.

I was in my sixteenth summer when I decided to follow that path. I packed up a few clothes, a sword I didn't know how to use, and some coin that wasn't mine, and I crept out of the house before my father had the chance to beat any sense into me. It was a clear, moonlight night that I can still picture in my mind, and I counted the stars as I imagined the great deeds I would do and princesses I would rescue from dragons, suitors, and all manner of evils.

I was young and idealistic, and the adventurer's call was beating in my heart.

A few nights later, in a dilapidated tavern several hamlets down the road, I happened upon a group of drunken mercenaries. They were decidedly better at boozing and boasting than battle, but I wasn't really a sound judge of martial prowess at the time. I had no skills to speak of, but I did have enough copper to keep their mugs filled with ale for another hour, and as such they took a shining to me. Several glasses later, it was as though I was a comrade of many years.

They were a rag-tag bunch: one human swordsman scarred from head to toe, a dwarf with a large battle axe and a penchant for ale, and a half-elf archer who couldn't be counted on to hit anything moving. Nevertheless, they had been down the road and I hadn't, and so I tried to study them as an apprentice would his masters. Jarret, swordsman third-class and a walking testament to the potential pitfalls of the trade, seemed to gain some sense of importance from taking me under his wing, and so he tried to teach me how to swing a blade. I suspect to him I looked like a hungry puppy, and, though it wasn't much, I lapped up all he had to teach.

We traveled together for several seasons before I decided to seek greener pastures. It wasn't a particularly pleasant parting, given that by the time I left I was probably the most capable warrior among them all - a fact which didn't sit well with my former mentor, especially after a few drinks. Our association ended with hurled curses and mugs, and I suspect he was relieved when I stormed off. They were a motley crew at best - not the kind of band I'd want covering my back in any real fight. But they showed me the ropes of the adventurer's trade, and for that I'll always be grateful.

Afterwards I set out on my own, and it was an immediately humbling experience. I wasn't stalking dragons or delivering damsels in distress; rather, I soon found myself escorting caravans for miserly merchants, squeezing debtors for their coin, and even bouncing unruly patrons from a particularly seedy brothel. I was just another sword for hire, taking any and all work. It wasn't glamorous, and I earned barely enough to keep food on my plate - decidedly not the life I'd pictured as an excited youth on that starry night. But I clenched my teeth and set out to be the best bouncer this side of the Great Mountains, and I never questioned that it would lead me to greater things.

It's a long road going from petty enforcer to full-fledged adventurer, and it has its share of distractions and dangers, but I was determined to tame it. So I put my head down, my sword forward, and I conquered it step-by- step. I didn't really have a choice - I was held captive by the adventurer's call sounding endlessly in my mind, an unceasing chorus of ambition and excitement, and I let it drive me onward. I picked my fights and won them, and I went to great lengths and expense to earn the favor of potential patrons and my fellows at arms.

By my twenty-first summer, it had paid off. I had created a reputation for myself - I was an honorable rogue who was good with a blade. I was capable enough to accomplish most deeds and trustworthy enough to be considered for them. I killed my share of men and I loved my share of women, and I met great warriors of both sexes to whom I swore blood-friendship. In several towns I even attained the status of a minor hero for sending resident bandits and brigands into early - and permanent - retirement, and I got my lot of slaps on the back and free drinks in reward. It was an exciting and fulfilling time: I was living the life I'd once fantasized of, and the call resonated in my voice stronger than ever before.

Then, one morning, it was over.

The change was sudden, dramatic and complete. Overnight, it was as though the fire in my soul had been snuffed out. I awoke that morning to the sound of deathly silence, and it frightened me more than any beast or foe ever had. The call that had been singing an endless opus in my ears for my whole life had faded into nothingness. Where once there had been a clarion call to adventure, not even a murmur remained.

I don't know exactly how or why I lost the call, but I lost it for good - not that I accepted that fact at the time. No, I tried doggedly to ignore the call's absence, to go on with my life as though I was the same man. But I wasn't - I had changed. I could still ride a spirited charger at its thundering gallop, or make a blade slice through air, leather, and flesh, but it wasn't the same. The skill was still there, but the edge - the drive that had always propelled me across the precipice of danger - wasn't.

It showed. During my period of denial I picked a swordfight when I didn't need to and shouldn't have - we were too closely matched for safety. But I was desperate to prove to myself that I still had what it took to live the life of the blade, and I almost did prove it. In the process, though, I had my arm laid open all the way down to the hand. To this day the scar is the worst reminder I carry of my warrior's past, and at the time it sidelined any plans I might have had for a season while I recuperated.

More importantly, though, it gave me time to think; it gave me time to think about what I was, what I had become, and what was left in the world for me. I suppose it could be said that I healed mentally as I healed physically, since I finally came to grips with the truth: my adventuring days were over; the call was gone forever, and it was time to move on. So, even though I was soon able to fight again, I knew it wasn't my trade anymore.

I was only in my twenty-second summer, but already I was looking to start my life over. I sold my armor and all the tools of my trade to a passing merchant. The deal was made at a considerable loss, but money was not the object: I was exorcising my past. The sword I kept - it was the one moment in my life when I've been overcome by sentimentality. Freed from the burdens of my past self, I set off down the road again. However, this time I was not an adventurer looking for excitement. Rather, I was a wanderer searching for a place to call home.

It was about one moon later that I found the inn. Or, more truthfully put, I found the run-down manor. To this day I actually know very little of the history of my establishment. At one point it was owned by some unimportant, nameless, and predictably unpopular noble, whose serfs voiced their displeasure by throwing down their yokes and hoisting up his head on a pike. It's said that his ghost still haunts the building, though I've never had a personal encounter here with any ghost, ghast, or other apparition. Nevertheless, it was the reason given for the structure's uninhabited state when I arrived.

I'm not sure exactly what it was about the building that caught my eye, but I think it was a combination of things: the tall and arching widows, the twin chimneys pointing defiantly up at the heavens, and the angle at which the rising sun glances off the gray stone, breaking into a spectrum of orange, yellow, and fiery red. Whatever it was, though, it struck me as I paced around the outside of the old manor, running my fingers along the cool slate of the sentinel walls. It held me mute as I stood next to the weathered oaken door and pictured it with a fresh coat of evergreen paint.

It was that moment that the inn was born.

I found the farmer who owned - or more likely had assumed ownership of - the property. He didn't want the house and I did, and as such it didn't take us long to reach an agreement. I parted with a season's worth of adventuring loot, and I picked up the deed to my future. It needed repair and refurbishing, but I saw it in my mind, and I knew I was home.

It took a spring, summer, and the rest of my coin to turn that vision into something material, but I enlisted a score of local boys to help and we finished the job. I paid them decent wages and let them swing my sword a few times, and in return they repainted, repaired, and reopened the manor. I put the local craftsmen into a fury of building, and I cleaned out the local merchants of beds, chairs, and all manner of essentials. It was a battle against years of neglect, and it was as fierce as any I ever waged with blades, but eventually it all came to fruition. I was penniless by the fall, but before the first snow fell a sign was hanging out front of my new home:

"Evergreen Inn: Haven of the Road, Sanctuary to its Travelers."

I'm not sure why so many ex-adventurers find their place behind the innkeeper's bar, but it probably has something to do with the company the job entails. Merchants, warriors, and rogues all pass through your door, and with the dust of the road they track in memories of days gone by. I listen to their tales of triumph and fabricated exploits, and I can feel the texture of sharkskin on my palm and sweat beading on my face. Hearing them speak, I almost think I can hear the call dancing in their voices, even if it no longer calls to me. And, if I think it will get them to knock back a few more mugs of the house ale, I'll relate one of my stories of heroism from days long past. I'll not vouch for their complete authenticity, but they create excitement enough to merit any additions I may have made over the years.

Today I pride myself on running a classy establishment. Soft beds, warm beer, and a friendly smile will greet every traveler who passes through my door. Check your weapons as you enter and cover your tab, and we'll get along fine. Be you a fighter or a farmer, no one is turned away from my hearth - though I'll admit I feel a special connection to those in the adventuring trades. I've no doubt that my reputation as a swordsman, modest though it was, will be eclipsed by that of an innkeeper soon enough, and this prospect no longer bothers me.

I'm now in my twenty-seventh summer - the fifth since I put down my blade for the keys to an inn. I still keep them both in a drawer under my bar. I may be an innkeeper, but I'll always be ready - just in case I ever hear the call again.