When one first approaches the Cross Inn, they might, perhaps, describe it as some terrific hybrid of a foreboding darkness, and a liberating light. The building itself, is one that is somewhat typical of the times - the foundation is built from large granite rocks, and the walls themselves are of a sort of wood. Since its construction in 1658, it has been the sole witness to the lives of every citizen in Salem.
Still, time has taken its toll. Perhaps it is the presence of sinners in every society, or even the darkness of the Devil, himself, ever lying in wait for his opportune moment to afflict the people of God. And yet, perhaps still, it is that stain of guilt - that horrific stain that forever sticks to a soul relentlessly until it is assuaged - that sits upon the inn like a gargoyle on a cathedral, forever waiting for its needs to be satisfied.
Regardless of such taint, the people of Salem and travelers of the world find themselves somehow drawn to its dark appearance, for though its exterior is harsh and malevolent, the inside of the building itself gives the soul a sense of safety. Over the ever-warm hearth hangs that thing which did lend its name to the inn which houses it - a crucifix. At times, locals and those staying at the inn have claimed that the very eyes of Christ seemed to look down upon them, almost as if to say, "You are safe here, my child."
Beyond the mantle sets a lone door - perhaps of oak or some other wood that refuses to submit to Father Time and Mother Nature. A small light is sometimes seen peering out from the very rugged bottom edges, but it never stays long. Much speculation has gone into the exact contents lying in wait on the other side of this portal, and even further about that lone person who must surely enter and exit the chamber. Many attempts have been made to break through the door, or to even pick the lock, yet none have ever succeeded.
Last but not least in the common room, can be found a kind old gentleman of perhaps no more than 50 years, his glittering eyes shining forth upon the inhabitants of the inn. This man is none other than the grandson of the inn's founder, John Osten. Rumor has it that his grandfather, Erik Osten, an immigrant to England from the Netherlands, fell into favor with the King and was given a charter for some land up just beyond Virginia. He found the land to be unfit for his tastes, and he set out on foot until he reached the very spot where the inn now stands, pulled out his Bible, and decided that he should erect an inn here in honor of the Lord.
As the weary traveller enters, Mr. Osten speaks out, "To what extent may I entertain thyself and thy needs?"
Georg walked into the inn, feeling very hungry, and felt he could use a drink. He came up to the bar, set down his violin case, and said, "I'll have some substance to drink, and whatever the special is for today."
Still, time has taken its toll. Perhaps it is the presence of sinners in every society, or even the darkness of the Devil, himself, ever lying in wait for his opportune moment to afflict the people of God. And yet, perhaps still, it is that stain of guilt - that horrific stain that forever sticks to a soul relentlessly until it is assuaged - that sits upon the inn like a gargoyle on a cathedral, forever waiting for its needs to be satisfied.
Regardless of such taint, the people of Salem and travelers of the world find themselves somehow drawn to its dark appearance, for though its exterior is harsh and malevolent, the inside of the building itself gives the soul a sense of safety. Over the ever-warm hearth hangs that thing which did lend its name to the inn which houses it - a crucifix. At times, locals and those staying at the inn have claimed that the very eyes of Christ seemed to look down upon them, almost as if to say, "You are safe here, my child."
Beyond the mantle sets a lone door - perhaps of oak or some other wood that refuses to submit to Father Time and Mother Nature. A small light is sometimes seen peering out from the very rugged bottom edges, but it never stays long. Much speculation has gone into the exact contents lying in wait on the other side of this portal, and even further about that lone person who must surely enter and exit the chamber. Many attempts have been made to break through the door, or to even pick the lock, yet none have ever succeeded.
Last but not least in the common room, can be found a kind old gentleman of perhaps no more than 50 years, his glittering eyes shining forth upon the inhabitants of the inn. This man is none other than the grandson of the inn's founder, John Osten. Rumor has it that his grandfather, Erik Osten, an immigrant to England from the Netherlands, fell into favor with the King and was given a charter for some land up just beyond Virginia. He found the land to be unfit for his tastes, and he set out on foot until he reached the very spot where the inn now stands, pulled out his Bible, and decided that he should erect an inn here in honor of the Lord.
As the weary traveller enters, Mr. Osten speaks out, "To what extent may I entertain thyself and thy needs?"
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Georges enters the inn, being pulled along by a young girl. "Alright, we're here, now what?" he says, with a mock serious tone.
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