Carolynn

Running an entire inn by myself is difficult work, eased only slightly by the methodical nature of my long-established routine. I'm up before dawn, already preparing a breakfast meant to last half a dozen overeager eaters three days. This time, I'm making meat stew in a massive pot, a hearty protein-rich meal that I'm certain my patrons will appreciate. I'm no gourmet chef, but I don't need to be. My inn, the Weary Wayfarer, attracts a certain kind of customer, the kind that tends to care more about the quantity of gruel they can gobble down than the quality or taste. Tucked aside in a small mountain town, my inn receives patronage from adventurers first and foremost with only an occasional scattering of the relatives of my fellow townsmen. It's a different, more rugged atmosphere than most inns, but I still try my best to make it homey while also catering more specifically to my tenants. My crack-of-dawn, heavy-duty meal prep is just another extension of that. Most adventurers rise with the sun and don't fancy twiddling their thumbs while waiting around for service. If I want to be a gracious hostess, I just have to one-up them a little bit and get up even earlier. Hehe, one-uping an adventurer. Little old me. Imagine that!

With the stew mixed and starting to warm on the stove, I get to work on the tables, flipping upright any chairs overturned in last night's drunken revelries and wetting a rag to clean off any stains that might remain. The vagabonds that frequent my establishment are seldom well-behaved, but I've never been bothered by their rowdiness, nor have I ever demanded their civility. If anything I admire them for their demeanors. I can still remember I was just a wee girl, wide-eyed and full of wonder, listening while various adventurers regaled my fantastic tales and half-truths of mystical realms and wonderous artifacts. At the time, I had insisted to my folks that I would become a legendary adventurer myself one day, much to their chagrin. I even used to 'train' for it for hours with a wooden stick outside! Ah, my youth. Those were the days... I never ended up having the follow-through to uproot my life here and leave for lands unknown, though. Inheriting the inn and the reliability of safety and prosperity that came with it kept me warm and... complacent, I suppose.

Still in the process of wiping down the tables, I pause, my nostalgia gaining a note of melancholy that I hadn't expected. My gaze wanders to where I was cleaning, meeting my own eyes in the reflection cast against the glossy surface of polished wood. For the briefest moment, I feel young again, full of that rash ambition belied by the inexperience of youth. But the woman looking back up at me is hard to reconcile with my fantasies. Prominent streaks of gray run rampant through my fading brown hair, and unrelenting creases have begun to form around my lips and under eyes, persisting even as I try contort my face to remove them. Goodness, I've gotten so old so quickly. Where did all the years escape to? Where's the ambitious little scamp with big dreams and a bigger imagination? Time really does sneak up when one lets it pass them by. Tomorrow, always tomorrow. Always busy running the inn with little thought for my own future. I've had a happy, successful life, here but...

I sigh, stowing away the rag and returning to stir the stew before it burns on the bottom of the pan. My moments are sluggish though, robbed of their dexterity by a greedy mind willing me to linger on things I'd rather not. No matter how I try to make peace with my regrets move on, the cessation of thoughts never comes. Am I really too old now? I don't feel old, and I'm far from decrepit, but I've also never heard tales of the valiant heroes of lore having backs that ache and joints that pop. Why am I only thinking about this now after letting so many years go by with neither plan nor action? Does my complacency mean I'll never go on a proper adventure? Why do I long so much for something I've never done anyway? Do I even genuinely want what I think I do or is this just some variant of a midlife crisis? How can I be so convinced that going on an adventure would be that great anyway? I can't know that for sure. But on the other hand, what if I'm just telling myself it wouldn't be great to spare my feelings?

"No, no, no. I'm thinking in circles." I muse aloud. "Regret it if I do, regret it if I don't. Ugh. Why does every fork in the road have to leave me wondering what's down the other paths? I should just be happy that my life has been good, right? I've never slept in the dirt or wanted for food. It would be irresponsible to leave it all behind."

Forcibly putting the matter to rest, I return my full attention to my stew, realizing my stirrings have been neglectful at best and stepping up my efforts. I venture a few tentative sips from the ladle, starting to add spices to taste and refocus on something other than my tumultuous thoughts. I'm exactly where I need to be, doing exactly what I want to do. My baby birds are counting on me to make them a nice nest. Well, tough, scar-ridden, often hungover baby birds, but I wouldn't have it any other way. It's best that I focus on that I have instead of what could have been. Besides, through the kitchen window I can see orange beginning to kiss the clouds in the morning sun's wake, and that means breakfast is nigh!

"Mmm, mmm, mmm! All this yummy smelling stew! I don't see anyone else around, so I guess I have to eat it all by myself!" I tease good-naturedly, my voice hopefully carrying enough to let anyone who's awake upstairs know that it's time to come down. "Sure would be a darn shame if I had to share any of it!"