A story about vampires, trust, and a cozy little tavern in the middle of nowhere.
This is under construction and will be updated with more descriptive texts and options as I expand the plot.
You are EDWIN GLYNN, a local tavernkeeper who works and resides in a little clearing in the Crossroads Woods. As the name suggests, the Crossroads Woods is an intersection between many bustling towns and cities, and your tavern is lucky enough to be located in the exact centre of that intersection. On days with mild weather, you're lucky enough to get visitors from all directions, all grateful for the brief respite from their journeys your tavern represents. Lately, however, you haven't been lucky enough to have those milder days.
Rain batters the windows, and the view of the trees outside swaying in the cold wind is blurry and almost shapeless through the glass. It's a cold, stormy spring night, a remnant of the winter blizzards a mere month ago. This is by far one of the worst spring storms this year, and while yesterday you were still lucky to find a few customers, any would-be travellers have no doubt been dissuaded by the weather. So, tonight your time is spent behind the bar, silently washing glasses for guests who likely will never come. You've let the staff you've hired take a week or so off until the weather clears up, knowing you'd be able to handle the few customers who come in anyways, so now you're truly alone. The atmosphere is comforting, at least, the crackling fire in the hearth breaking the monotonous silence giving your tavern a cozy atmosphere that makes your lonesomeness more comforting than disapointing.
Knock, knock, knock.
You're torn from your thoughts by the sound of someone knocking on the front door to your tavern. Through the window, you can see the hazy silhouette of a scrawny figure patiently waiting on the porch to be let in.
Something something you answer the door. Look it took a long time to write just the beginning part, and I wanted to at least know the tab thing worked.
You decide to ignore the sound of the knocking, strangely unnerved by the idea of someone being out so late at night during such a vicious storm. While you do usually try to be welcoming to all, there's a certain chill that runs up your spine every time you glance at the scrawny figure patiently waiting to be let in, even though the door is unlocked. After an hour, you watch the hazy silhouette of the stranger stumble off the porch, away from your tavern, and into the night. As the individual reaches the edge of the clearing, you swear you watch their form collapse onto the wet, muddy earth.