The Wandering Inn Quotes

Roads Go Ever On Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through the merry flowers of June, Over grass and over stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on, Under cloud and under star. Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen, And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green, And trees and hills they long have known. The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet, Until it joins some larger way, Where many paths and errands meet. The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with weary feet, Until it joins some larger way, Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say. The Road goes ever on and on Out from the door where it began. Now far ahead the Road has gone. Let others follow, if they can! Let them a journey new begin. But I at last with weary feet Will turn towards the lighted inn, My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

I know that to you everything has changed for the worse over the last weeks. But for me..." Elias pauses. rests his forehead into the curve of my neck. "Before you my life was nothing but wandering and solitude and death. Now with you there's possibility." He pulls back until we're looking into each other's eyes. "I'm falling inn love with you, Gabrielle. Not with the person you used to be, but you.

Somehow, having a staring skeleton standing in a dark corner staring at her was even worse than having it right next to her.

I am the consequences

I’m no mage. But I understand bullshit quite well.

What was the saying about lemons and life? If life gives you lemons…burn down the lemon factory? Something like that.

Something. Anything. Give your time to someone else to talk, give a bit of trust, or a helping hand. Give them a second, and maybe you'll get something back.

Stories. They don’t mean much to people who don’t listen. But to some, they mean everything.

It was an evening of torment, and I remember only one other thing about it. At some point after everyone was asleep, I wandered away from the inn in a daze and ended up on the sea cliffs, staring out into the darkness with sound of the roaring water below me. The thundering of the ocean was like a bitter lament. I seemed to see beneath everything a layering of cruelty I have never known was there. The howling of the wind and shaking of the trees seemed to mock me. Could it really be that the stream of my life had divided forever.

And the Goblin archer’s head disappears. Not disappears in a cute way like he ducked down or he fell over. No. The entire neck and skin pulls away as a massive jaw closes over his head and rips his head clean off.

Erin grows on you like a mushroom.

Erin panicked harder.

Hey, it happens to all of us.” “Did it ever happen to you?” Erin had to think about that. “No. But it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anyone would freeze up if a horrible zombie tried to eat their face.

There fared a mother driven forth Out of an inn to roam; In the place where she was homeless All men are at home. The crazy stable close at hand, With shaking timber and shifting sand, Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand Than the square stones of Rome. For men are homesick in their homes, And strangers under the sun, And they lay on their heads in a foreign land Whenever the day is done. Here we have battle and blazing eyes, And chance and honour and high surprise, But our homes are under miraculous skies Where the yule tale was begun. A Child in a foul stable, Where the beasts feed and foam; Only where He was homeless Are you and I at home; We have hands that fashion and heads that know, But our hearts we lost - how long ago! In a place no chart nor ship can show Under the sky's dome. This world is wild as an old wives' tale, And strange the plain things are, The earth is enough and the air is enough For our wonder and our war; But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings And our peace is put in impossible things Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings Round an incredible star. To an open house in the evening Home shall men come, To an older place than Eden And a taller town than Rome. To the end of the way of the wandering star, To the things that cannot be and that are, To the place where God was homeless And all men are at home.

But one moment stood out to me, as I sat beneath a dark sky full of stars and retold a moment from the Lord of the Rings. Trick memory. It was just one conversation in a three-hour long film in a quartet of movies, but I’ve always remembered it. “And Gandalf paused, and spoke. He looked at Pippin with a smile, and said ‘End? No, the journey doesn’t end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.’ And Pippin said, ‘What? Gandalf? See what?’” I look around. My audience is spellbound. I take a breath. “‘White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.’” As I finish speaking, I look up, about to finish the scene and describe the Rohirrim coming to Gondor’s aid.

I feel like she's more cut out to be an employee at the inn than a hunter risking life and limb for money, but I'm sure she has her own thoughts on that.

A man with no coin had no reason to pace his trek in terms of outposts and inns. He could pay for no bed. Thus, he could wander to his heart’s content,

Sometimes you can’t solve other people’s problems even if you want to. Sometimes people have to go through their struggles alone.

Thus, the legendary tale of the Wandering Inn began.

I don’t even know what it means to be human. All I know is that there’s a big hole in my heart. Because Klbkch and the Worker died. I don’t know who I am or what I’m doing. I’m just—sad

ONCE UPON A time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him. To the eldest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him as much as all the treasure in the kingdom. To the middle princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him with the strength of iron. To the youngest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” This youngest princess thought for a long time before answering. Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. “Then you do not love me at all,” the king said. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread. She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. As the days and weeks go by, the princess learns the ways of the kitchen. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served. It is the king’s favorite dish, but this time it has been cooked with no salt. The king tastes it. Tastes it again. “Who would dare to serve

To be in touch with wilderness is to have stepped past the proud cattle of the field and wandered far from the twinkles of the Inn's fire. To have sensed something sublime in the life/death/life movement of the seasons, to know that contained in you is the knowledge to pull the sword from the stone and to live well in fierce woods in deep winter. Wilderness is a form of sophistication, because it carries within it true knowledge of our place in the world. It doesn't exclude civilization but prowls through it, knowing when to attend to the needs of the committee and when to drink from a moonlit lake. It will wear a suit and tie when it has to, but refuses to trim its talons or whiskers. Its sensing nature is not afraid of emotion: the old stories are full of grief forests and triumphant returns, banquets and bridges of thorns. Myth tells us that the full gamut of feeling is to be experienced. Wilderness is the capacity to go into joy, sorrow, and anger fully and stay there for as long as needed, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Sometimes, as Lorca says, it means 'get down on all fours for twenty centuries and eat the grasses of the cemetaries.' Wilderness carries sobriety as well as exuberance, and has allowed loss to mark its face.

ONCE UPON A time there was a king who had three beautiful daughters. As he grew old, he began to wonder which should inherit the kingdom, since none had married and he had no heir. The king decided to ask his daughters to demonstrate their love for him. To the eldest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him as much as all the treasure in the kingdom. To the middle princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” She loved him with the strength of iron. To the youngest princess he said, “Tell me how you love me.” This youngest princess thought for a long time before answering. Finally she said she loved him as meat loves salt. “Then you do not love me at all,” the king said. He threw his daughter from the castle and had the bridge drawn up behind her so that she could not return. Now, this youngest princess goes into the forest with not so much as a coat or a loaf of bread. She wanders through a hard winter, taking shelter beneath trees. She arrives at an inn and gets hired as assistant to the cook. As the days and weeks go by, the princess learns the ways of the kitchen. Eventually she surpasses her employer in skill and her food is known throughout the land. Years pass, and the eldest princess comes to be married. For the festivities, the cook from the inn makes the wedding meal. Finally a large roast pig is served. It is the king’s favorite dish, but this time it has been cooked with no salt. The king tastes it. Tastes it again. “Who would dare to serve such an ill-cooked roast at the future queen’s wedding?” he cries. The princess-cook appears before her father, but she is so changed he does not recognize her. “I would not serve you salt, Your Majesty,” she explains. “For did you not exile your youngest daughter for saying that it was of value?” At her words, the king realizes that not only is she his daughter—she is, in fact, the daughter who loves him best. And what then? The eldest daughter and the middle sister have been living with the king all this time. One has been in favor one week, the other the next. They have been driven apart by their father’s constant comparisons. Now the youngest has returned, the king yanks the kingdom from his eldest, who has just been married. She is not to be queen after all. The elder sisters rage. At first, the youngest basks in fatherly love. Before long, however, she realizes the king is demented and power-mad. She is to be queen, but she is also stuck tending to a crazy old tyrant for the rest of her days. She will not leave him, no matter how sick he becomes. Does she stay because she loves him as meat loves salt? Or does she stay because he has now promised her the kingdom? It is hard for her to tell the difference.

She ran with the speed of panic.

Why does an ax champion use a hammer?

He had half a mind to simply blast her into little pieces, but it was a very small half.

I will not scream. I may excrete all my bodily waste, however. Is that acceptable?

My heart is large enough to suffer a thousand insults, but too small to accept the loss of one friend.

How do you define Ryoka Griffin? An equation? (|Perfection| – Social Interaction) + Anger + A Bit of Magic = Ryoka Griffin? Or is it— (|Perfection – Human Interaction | + Rage + Loneliness) + Another Chance = Ryoka Griffin?

I never saw so much life left in someone who had lived so much," said Bernice Latelle, a gospel singer who lived in Bessie's neighborhood and heard her at the Wander Inn. "I don't think anybody or anything could break that woman's spirit.

I'm unaccustomed to being cooped up all day-I really must insist that you permit me to enjoy a short walk." "Not on your life," Fletcher growled. From the sound, Breckenridge realized the group had moved closer to the tap. "You don't need to think you're going to give us the slip so easily," Fletcher said again. "My dear good man"-Heather with her nose in the air; Breckenridge could tell by her tone-"just where in this landscape of empty fields do you imagine I'm going to slip to?" Cobbins opined that she might try to steal a horse and ride off. "Oh,yes-in a round gown and evening slippers," Heather jeered. "But I wasn't suggesting you let me ramble on my own-Martha can come with me." That was Martha's cue to enter the fray, but Heather stuck to her guns, refusing to back down through the ensuing, increasingly heated verbal stoush. Until Fletcher intervened, aggravated frustration resonating in his voice. "Look you-we're under strict orders to keep you safe, not to let you wander off to fall prey to the first shiftless rake who rides past and takes a fancy to you." Silence reigned for half a minute, then Heather audibly sniffed. "I'll have you know that shiftless rakes know better than to take a fancy to me." Not true, Breckenridge thought, but that wasn't the startling information contained in Fletcher's outburst. "Come on, Heather-follow up." As if she'd heard his muttered exhortation, she blithely swept on. "But if rather than standing there arguing, you instead treated me like a sensible adult and told me what your so strict orders with respect to me were, I might see my way to complying-or at least to helping you comply with them." Breckenridge blinked as he sorted through that pronouncement; he could almost feel for Fletcher when he hissed out a sigh. "All right," Fletcher's frustration had reached breaking point. "If you must know, we're to keep you safe from all harm. We're not to let a bloody pigeon pluck so much as a hair from your head. We're to deliver you up in prime condition, exactly as you were when he grabbed you." From the change in Fletcher's tone, Breckenridge could visualize him moving closer to tower over Heather to intimidate her into backing down; he could have told him it wouldn't work. "So now you see," Fletcher went on, voice low and forceful, "that it's entirely out of the question for you to go out for any ramble." "Hmm." Heather's tone was tellingly mild. Fletcher was about to get floored by an uppercut. For once not being on the receiving end, Breckenridge grinned and waited for it to land. "If, as you say, your orders are to-do correct me if I'm wrong-keep me in my customary excellent health until you hand me over to your employer, then, my dear Fletcher, that will absolutely necessitate me going for a walk. Being cooped up all day in a carriage has never agreed with me-if you don't wish me to weaken or develop some unhealthy affliction, I will require fresh air and gentle exercise to recoup." She paused, then went on, her tone one of utmost reasonableness, "A short excursion along the river at the rear of the inn, and back, should restore my constitution." Breckenridge was certain he could hear Fletcher breathing in and out through clenched teeth. A fraught moment passed on, then, "Oh, very well! Martha-go with her. Twenty minutes, do you hear? Not a minute more." "Thank you, Fletcher. Come, Martha-we don't want to waste the light." Breckenridge heard Heather, with the rather slower Martha, leave the inn by the main door. He sipped his ale, waited. Eventually, Fletcher and Cobbins climbed the stairs, Cobbins grumbling, Fletcher ominously silent. The instant they passed out of hearing, Breckenridge stood, stretched, then walked out of the tap and into the foyer. Seconds later, he slipped out of the front door.

At last I came upon the hedge maze. Far from the warm circles of light cast by torch and lamp, the leaves and twigs here were wedged in a silver lacework of starlight and shadow. The entrance was framed by two large trees, their branches still bare of any new growth. In the darkness, they seemed less like garden posts marking the way into the labyrinth than two silent sentinels guarding the doorway to the underworld. Shapes writhed in the shadows beyond the archway of bramble and vine, both inviting and intimidating. Yet I was not frightened. The hedge maze smelled like the forest outside the inn, a deep green scent of growth and decay, where life and death were intermingled. A familiar scent. A welcoming scent. The scent of home. Removing my mask, I crossed the threshold, letting darkness swallow me whole. There were no torches or candles lit upon the paths, and neither moonlight nor starlight penetrated the dense bramble. Yet my footing along these paths was sure, every part of me attuned to the wildness around me. Unlike the maze of Schönbrunn Palace, a meticulously manicured and man-made construction, this labyrinth breathed. Nature creeped in along the edges, reclaiming groomed, orderly, and civilized corridors into a twisting tangle of tunnels and tracks, weeds and wildflowers. Paths grew vague, roots unruly, branches untamed. Somewhere deep in the labyrinth, I could hear the giggles and gasps of illicit encounters in the shrubbery. I was careful of my step, lest I trip over a pair of trysting lovers, but when I came upon no one else, I let myself fall into a meditative state of mind. I wandered the recursive spirals of the hedge maze, turn after turn after turn, feeling a measure of calm for the first time in a long time.

Epista was cuter than a cockroach.

Peace is best when both sides have big sword.

There was always something to do if you looked for it. That was the curse of command. The more you could do, the less time you had to do it.

I don’t know what it is about lute-players. I might, perhaps, exempt those who are the personal musicians of our great men, but the itinerant lutenists wander from inn to inn, frequently offering to play in exchange for food, drink and shelter for the night. As a result, they eat and drink lustily, to put it mildly, and that’s not the only thing they do lustily. If I were the father of daughters, I should counsel them strictly to have nothing to do with anyone with a lute.

The instant a weapon is used, it is copied a thousand times over. Have you not witnessed this yourself?” Erin thought of her hamburgers and had nothing to say.

The skeleton nodded. It carefully stuck the kitchen knife between its ribs to hold it in place, lifted the huge fish with both hands, and walked out of the kitchen with it. Erin stared until she heard the screech of wood on wood as the skeleton began dragging a table towards the door.

I note these swords are not reacting despite their apparent enchantments. May I hold both, or will I burst into flame and die in excruciating agony?

The Hobbit began playing as Ryoka sat back. Teriarch was stunned as screaming Dwarves filled the screen. “I thought you said this world didn’t have Dragons. Are those—that armor is completely unrealistic. That’s not a Dragon. Look at those scales! Does he have some kind of plague? Or is he just dirty?

I would also like to note that with the Horns of Hammerad’s successful completion of this assignment with a solo member of our group, when no team was capable of doing so by themselves, we have established our superiority over other teams in this guild. I understand that equates to dominance in Human culture.” At last there was a shift in the crowd. Ksmvr saw an adventurer open his mouth furiously. “What the hel—” Ksmvr turned, quick as a whip to face the adventurer. The man froze for a second. He stared at the Antinium and his tongue failed him. Ksmvr nodded. “Dominance.

What are you? What are…” Ksmvr twitched one antenna. His mandibles opened and rose. “Me? Substandard.” And then he leapt up. And he fell, shrieking like a thing out of hell. For psychological effect.

Artefacts?

But he’s an adventurer, and those were bad guys he, uh, dismembered.” “You mean disarmed.

A drunken man stumbled out of a door at the back of an inn and tripped over her. She bolted for the alleyway as the man looked around in a daze. Eventually, the notion entered his mind that perhaps it was due to the alcohol, and he wandered off in a more or less straight line. He broke into a sailor’s song about how difficult it was to stay standing on the deck in a storm, which he felt fit his situation quite poetically.

Family. It was a strange word. Some might have said it couldn’t ever apply to them. That they were too different. Too alien, too strange. That there were too many secrets and differences to ever bring them together. But that wasn’t what made a family. It was just being willing to try.

A [Merchant] doesn’t just treat his clients like a friend, Miss Selys. Oh no, he treats them far better!

It wasn’t bravery or bravado. It wasn’t the thrill of battle, but the will to survive.

Either you took a risk and died or became famous or—you worked hard and kept your head down.

as Mrsha ran up with two mugs,

wandered through Stratford, waiting to hear back. The main downtown area was small and pedestrian, centered on the local tourist industry. Most of the buildings were in the half-timbered Tudor style, lending an air of Renaissance authenticity to the town. Quaint street signs helpfully funneled bumbling tourists toward the attractions: “Shakespeare’s Birthplace” or “Holy Trinity Church and Shakespeare’s Grave.” On High Street, I passed the Hathaway Tea Rooms and a pub called the Garrick Inn. Farther along, a greasy-looking cafe called the Food of Love, a cutesy name taken from Twelfth Night (“ If music be the food of love, play on”). The town was Elizabethan kitsch—plus souvenir shops, a Subway, a Starbucks, a cluster of high-end boutiques catering to moneyed out-of-towners, more souvenir shops. Shakespeare’s face was everywhere, staring down from signs and storefronts like a benevolent big brother. The entrance to the “Old Bank estab. 1810” was gilded ornately with an image of Shakespeare holding a quill, as though he functioned as a guarantee of the bank’s credibility. Confusingly, there were several Harry Potter–themed shops (House of Spells, the Creaky Cauldron, Magic Alley). You could almost feel the poor locals scheming how best to squeeze a few more dollars out of the tourists. Stratford and Hogwarts, quills and wands, poems and spells. Then again, maybe the confusion was apt: Wasn’t Shakespeare the quintessential boy wizard, magically endowed with inexplicable powers?

The silvery light was beautiful as art. It cut as deep as despair.

The awakened Raskghar looked complete. If the ordinary Raskghar were beasts who could think, the Raskghar who had performed the ritual were people wearing the skins of monsters. But not good people. Oh no, not at all.

Time has power, as does place. I say again, be cautious today, Ryoka Griffin. Since you travel, it would be best if you enter no house uninvited nor ask for any favors of those you meet upon the road. Utter no curses, ask for no blessings if ye are unwilling to pay the price. And make no bargains, make no promises. Tell no lies.

We are not monsters yet; But we do not forget; We are lost, outcasts all. I caught him too late. His sigh— A shudder. Last goodbye. Time passes, cities rise and nations fall; And yet they will always hate us all. Goblins. Why do they hate us so? Why does the wind blow? I suppose I will never know.

It says here…twang, twang, higher-pitched twang? How am I supposed to play that?

Klbkch would let Erin take over to tell another story—Charlotte’s Web, a story which would cause much emotional distress on the part of every Soldier who had killed Shield Spiders.

To the Emperor of Eyes! To the Ruler of the Unseen! To the Protector of the Cottage!

He really was easy to read. Like an open book with big letters and pictures.

This did feel like the good old days. And it turned out that the good old days weren’t that good.

the speed of rumor, which was probably faster than the speed of light, sound, and passing wind combined.

was a novel experience, mainly because they weren’t trying to kill her, and she was only contemplating doing that to them.

I prefer the term ‘wandering inn.’ It’s got a grand ring to it.

Hello diary Bart here. I bought this diary at a village auction. The price was 8 emeralds and I bought it. I am just a lonely wandering trader travelling the overworld by myself. I am always running away from mobs, but I want to attack them and kill them. Anyways I am in this small mountain biome village and I found an inn. It was only bright morning, so I decided to find a blacksmith to trade an iron sword for. I was walking around the village and I finally found a blacksmith setting up a stall in case a player came by so he could sell his goods.

Not all who visit the Lester Sunshine Inn are aware of its rich history and contributions to our society. It may seem odd to you that such an ordinary point on the map could have had such a profound impact on what we all now take for granted. If we look closely at this nexus in time and location, we can see a series of collisions of both people and ideas combining to create the underlying code of our current existence.” – Marto Boxter, The Wakeful Wanderer’s Guide, Vol. 6, line 3

Vision is not hereditary, I’m afraid. And it is opinion which matters more.