The Golden Goose

It’s a cold, rainy, miserable night. You’re on your way from someplace to someplace else, but you can barely remember where you set out from and where you’re going to, you’ve been on the road so long. You’re soaked to the bones, hungry, tired, alone.

You’ve come to a city you’ve never been to before and you’re looking for a warm fire, supper and a bed. In your pocket is just enough money that you should be able to purchase these three items, as long as you’re not too fussy. Which you’re not.  Not this night.

You’re crossing a bridge, searching for an inn, when you see lights from windows above you, and the sounds of laughter and the clink of glasses. You stop, surprised. There’s an inn right on the bridge. You find the stairs that lead up to the entrance. There’s a sign above the door: a goose, a golden egg, and a name: "M. Plunkett, prop."

You stumble in, dripping water from your cloak and hat, and find yourself in a crowded common room. Noise, light, voices, the pleasing scents of ale and wine and good food. You like it here immediately. This is just what you were looking for. You find a seat near the roaring fire. The barmaid brings you a bowl of soup, a hunk of bread, and a foaming tankard. You sit back, content. This is more like it.

The room, you discover, is filled with folk from all over. Some are pilgrims stopping for the night on the way to holy places; others are restless young men and women seeking their fortune; still others are adventurers on quests; and some simply introduce themselves as travelers, like you, on their way someplace from someplace else.

What they have in common is that each of them has a story. And one is being told right now...

[coming soon: Tales from the Golden Goose]

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