Welcome, Wanderers Start Here

As you wander through worlds, you find yourself upon a moss-draped, cobblestone pathway, the kind that feels like it’s been waiting for you. Each step carries a quiet familiarity, something like home, though you cannot say why. You push aside the ivy veiling a weathered stone archway, its leaves brushing against your fingertips like an unspoken welcome. Beyond it, nestled in the hush of the landscape, stands a cottage of dark stones and red brick, the ivy clinging to its walls like ancient secrets. You should feel wary—but instead, a quiet curiosity stirs within you.

The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of citrus and old parchment. It urges you forward. The arched wooden door is slightly ajar, inviting yet enigmatic, and upon it, a single note waits for you:

Welcome, Fellow Wanderer. Make yourself at home.

Stepping inside, you find a space that defies reality—larger than it seems from outside, yet still wrapped in the intimacy of a well-loved haven. To your left, a sunroom stretches beneath an arched ceiling, its walls covered in panes of glass that spill golden light across the dark stone floor. A wrought-iron ladder stands between towering bookshelves overflowing with titles, apothecary bottles, and trailing plants, their leaves curling lazily toward the sunlight.

To your right, a slender table sits adorned with open books and cascading greenery, beside a dark green velvet armchair worn in just the right places. A leather couch rests beneath a wide window, scattered with gemstone-colored pillows and blankets, inviting you to sink into its warmth. Beyond the glass lies a dense forest, ancient and whispering, shifting with unseen movement. Overhead, the sky is something else entirely—an expanse of cosmic wonder, littered with constellations, swirling galaxies, and a full moon that watches, patient and knowing.

You step into the parlor. A massive stone fireplace dominates the back wall, its fire casting flickering shadows that stretch and retreat. A raven perches upon the mantle, sharp-eyed and silent, though you have the distinct feeling you are being measured. Towering bookshelves flank the fireplace, brimming with candles, scrolls, and glass bottles glinting in the firelight. Two velvet armchairs sit before the hearth, their footrests waiting with neatly folded blankets. On the side table, a single cup of tea steams, its scent curling toward you. Something in the air tells you—it is meant for you.

To your right, a desk sprawls beneath a clutter of manuscripts, ink bottles, and half-finished sketches. More apothecary vials line the bookshelf behind it, filled with ingredients suspended in amber liquid. At the top, a white, speckled owl tilts its head, blinking at you in quiet appraisal. From beyond an arched opening to your right, warm light spills into the room. A glimpse inside reveals a kitchen steeped in magic—pots simmering without assistance, spoons twirling lazily through concoctions, knives chopping herbs of their own accord. A swirling metal staircase extends up and down in the corner. A soft blue glow comes from the lower level. A voice calls from deeper within the kitchen, warm and familiar:

“Enjoy your tea. I’ll be out shortly.”

Exhaustion lingers in your bones from long travels, and the chair calls to you in silent invitation. You sink into it, stretching your legs onto the footrest as you cradle your tea, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. A soft trill draws your attention—a large, long-haired cat, her fur a tapestry of orange, white, and black, pads forward with the grace of something ancient. She leaps onto your lap, curling into the space against your chest, purring like distant thunder. Your hand moves to pet her absentmindedly as you wait.

A shift in the air, and then—

“I’m glad you found us.”

The woman settles into the chair across from you, her presence both familiar and unknown, as if she has always been part of this place. Her long moonlight-white hair falls over her shoulders, meeting the folds of a deep emerald robe cinched with golden tassels. Tattoos trace the edges of her skin, disappearing beneath the fabric. Her eyes, bright and knowing, meet yours as she smiles.

“I see you’ve met the welcome party. We’ve been expecting you for quite some time.”

Your gaze shifts to the familiars—the cat, the raven, the owl—and then back to her.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the arms of the chair. “This cottage exists outside of time and space,” she explains, “a refuge for wanderers like you and me, a place of warmth along the journey.” She lifts her cup, steam curling into the space between you. “The tea is always brewing, the food always waiting, and now that you’ve found us—you are welcome, always. Rest, share your stories, and know that whatever you need, the cottage will provide.”

Her eyes flicker with something unreadable, something deep. “Welcome to the Sorcery and Starlight Inn. I am its Keeper. But this place—it belongs to all who wander, but are anything but lost.”

She sits back, cradling her drink, expression gentle. “Keeping the cottage open for those who find it can be lonely—but it is a noble thing.” Her eyes drift to her companions. “You will find good company here. Andromeda—Romy, if she lets you call her that—will glare at you from across the room, but all she truly wants is to sprawl across your chest while you read.” The Maine Coon blinks up at you, content.

She motions toward the raven. “Then there is Eldritch—be mindful of what he whispers. He’s a trickster, though you may not realize it until it’s too late.” You swear, just for a moment, that the raven winks.

She tilts her chin toward the owl behind her. “And this here is Sol—he adores listening to the stories our guests bring.” The owl swoops down, settling onto the back of her chair, blinking at you with slow, knowing patience.

She whistles softly—just a breath of sound, barely more than a suggestion. From the farthest corner of the room, the shadows shift, pooling together as if stirred by unseen hands. A shape begins to form, elongated and fluid, slinking forward with the quiet grace of something both tangible and not.

When it finally emerges, it is unmistakably hound-like—a beast woven from midnight, its ink-dark coat trailing ghostly tendrils of shadow that flicker and coil before dissolving. Twin rings of white encircle its piercing grey eyes, sharp and knowing, a contrast both eerie and beautiful.

She rests a hand upon the hound’s head, fingers threading through its ethereal coat. It leans into her touch, content, its form settling into quiet solidity beside her. “This is Nyx,” she murmurs, scratching gently behind its ears. “She is always near, even when unseen. Be not afraid—she is as kind as she is stealthy. She is the last of those who dwell in the Inn with me.”

“We five guard these lands, each in our own way—but that is a tale for another time.” She lifts her cup, the firelight catching in its surface, a silent gesture of welcome. “Enough about us. We are listening—what stories do you bring?”