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LETTER OF INTRODUCTION
To whom it may concern,
Hello! My name is Baranbull; it is such a pleasure to finally be in contact with a master of creativity such as yourself. I have heard much about you, oh yes. I would prefer to make this letter a bit more personal, however I am a very enterprising man, you see. The Innmaster of the Create Inn never has time for relaxation! It is a busy job, but one that I pride above all else. But enough of that; you may be wondering who I am? But I have just told you! I am the Innmaster of the Create Inn, the one venue where a person's creativity can come to life at a mere thought, harnessed through the power of their tools of the trade, and crafted with the fine precision expected from superb individuals such as yourself.
I do imagine that you are very confused about all this, but your curiosity is getting the better of you. That is another reason that you have been culled from the masses: your imagination can run rampant through this world and the next! I tell you, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Many would kill for this chance, and many have certainly tried (but to no avail, allow me to assure you)! Here, at the Create Inn, we do exactly that: Create.
You will conceive a new world, completely at your whim, while we personally cater to your every need. No outward distractions, just the most perfect - and I mean perfect - canvas in which to paint. Or the best ink in which to scribe your world, your very thoughts running across the parchment and into the ambiance around you. Let your notes of song transform into reality, invoking beauty in their wake. Or perhaps even sculpt the land with your very own hands! The possibilities are immeasurable here at the Create Inn, and so, without further ado, I will arrive at the point.
With new technology that can only be found at the Create Inn, your every thought can physically manifest itself, creating a corporeal world that was previously available only in your wildest fantasies.
Enclosed in this letter is an airline ticket. You were selected because you are, as I have stated, a superb individual in the face of ingenuity. So I invite you to the Create Inn, whether you be Writer, Storyteller, Dancer or Musician, Artist of Paint or Ink, or even Architect or Sculptor.
I welcome you to the Create Inn, where your imagination will soar to the highest peaks of perfection...
Sincerely,I do imagine that you are very confused about all this, but your curiosity is getting the better of you. That is another reason that you have been culled from the masses: your imagination can run rampant through this world and the next! I tell you, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Many would kill for this chance, and many have certainly tried (but to no avail, allow me to assure you)! Here, at the Create Inn, we do exactly that: Create.
You will conceive a new world, completely at your whim, while we personally cater to your every need. No outward distractions, just the most perfect - and I mean perfect - canvas in which to paint. Or the best ink in which to scribe your world, your very thoughts running across the parchment and into the ambiance around you. Let your notes of song transform into reality, invoking beauty in their wake. Or perhaps even sculpt the land with your very own hands! The possibilities are immeasurable here at the Create Inn, and so, without further ado, I will arrive at the point.
With new technology that can only be found at the Create Inn, your every thought can physically manifest itself, creating a corporeal world that was previously available only in your wildest fantasies.
Enclosed in this letter is an airline ticket. You were selected because you are, as I have stated, a superb individual in the face of ingenuity. So I invite you to the Create Inn, whether you be Writer, Storyteller, Dancer or Musician, Artist of Paint or Ink, or even Architect or Sculptor.
I welcome you to the Create Inn, where your imagination will soar to the highest peaks of perfection...
Your Innmaster, Ahri Baranbull
CHAPTER ONE
Warren Fox stared down at his first meal at the Create Inn in awe. He had reached the Inn only minutes before, and he was already being treated like royalty! Roasted duck, thick sirloin steaks, pork, brown rice, mashed and sweet potatoes, three kinds of gravy, and several different fruits and vegetables were all spread out on the table before him. Warren was in heaven, just as the letter seemed to have promised him. He couldn't believe this was real; there had to be a catch.
The 26-year-old sculptor was tall, nearing the 6'3" mark, and lanky. He wasn't skinny, exactly, he just had long arms and legs that seemed disproportional for his tall frame. He hardly saw it as a problem, himself; all of his clothes, such as the dark two-piece suit he was wearing, were custom-tailored to his measurements. He was staring hungrily at the table as he licked his lips, savoring the smell of the food. They must have the best cook in the world here. Strong, lithe fingers reached for his knife and fork. He grasped them with a firm grip; they were heavy. Warren wouldn't have been surprised to hear that they were made out of pure silver. Placing the silverware back down, he reached up and rand his fingers through his well-kept, if somewhat greasy, brown hair. He couldn't eat yet, not without their host present. If nothing else, his mother taught him manners. Instead, he let his green eyes roam the extravagant dining room.
The place was simply beautiful. The floor was made of a glossy gray stone that Warren could see was nearly a perfect slab of marble. He didn't dare move his chair, in fear of scuffing such a beautiful floor. The wallpaper was navy blue, very generic, yet it seemed to fit perfectly. Turning his eyes to the table, he noticed how painstakingly careful its creator had been. It was made of a dark wood, possibly Mahogany, though Warren wasn't sure. Resting on top of the table was a sheet of glass, under which was pure beauty: an amazingly detailed carving of the Gods of Olympus.
And that wasn't even all that was in the room. The walls were lined with the busts of famous leaders: Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Genghis Khan, to name a few. They were made of a pure white stone; alabaster, perhaps? The mineral made a great canvas for a chisel, and Warren had always wanted to work with it. His attention then turned to the far side dining hall. There was a short platform spanning the width of the room. Atop this platform was a small podium from which someone (presumably Baranbull) could address them. Finally, his eyes reached the ceiling. Unexpectedly, it was glass! Crystal clear, too. He could see the clouds floating lazily by, the moon in plain view even though the sky was still blue.
Absentmindedly, Warren pulled the invitation from his pocket. Everything about it seemed high class: the scrawling script, the soft paper, the wax seal and emblem. He remembered when he first received it. His roommate Alyssa (a completely platonic relationship, of course) had brought the letter to his workshop, commenting on how nice it looked. She had seemed giddy from delivering such a letter and had forced him to open it in front of her. It was a good thing she had, too -- if it hadn't been for Alyssa's insistence, Warren wouldn't be sitting where he was, before one of the best buffets he had ever seen. She had broken his skepticism, and the next thing he knew, he was at the airport, en route to Italy, then on a boat to an uncharted island in the Mediterranean Sea. Now he was sitting in a strange dining room with five strangers, waiting for an even stranger man to appear.
Then, as if summoned by his curiosity itself, the large oak double doors that the group came from opened. At once, all six of the guests turned to look. Standing in the doorway was a balding, elderly man in a three-piece suit, and a young, attractive brunette wearing a suit jacket and matching skirt. Warren stared at the man. Surely he could not be the Innmaster, Baranbull? The elderly fellow hobbled towards the podium slowly, the woman following close behind. It just didn't seem possible for this to be the person who had written such a charismatic letter of invitation. The man finally reached the podium, and turned to face the group. His eyes roamed from one person to the next, until he had silently greeted them all. Bringing an old fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat.
"Welcome, honored guests," he spoke, his arms rising to either side of him in greeting. "Welcome, to the Create Inn."
The 26-year-old sculptor was tall, nearing the 6'3" mark, and lanky. He wasn't skinny, exactly, he just had long arms and legs that seemed disproportional for his tall frame. He hardly saw it as a problem, himself; all of his clothes, such as the dark two-piece suit he was wearing, were custom-tailored to his measurements. He was staring hungrily at the table as he licked his lips, savoring the smell of the food. They must have the best cook in the world here. Strong, lithe fingers reached for his knife and fork. He grasped them with a firm grip; they were heavy. Warren wouldn't have been surprised to hear that they were made out of pure silver. Placing the silverware back down, he reached up and rand his fingers through his well-kept, if somewhat greasy, brown hair. He couldn't eat yet, not without their host present. If nothing else, his mother taught him manners. Instead, he let his green eyes roam the extravagant dining room.
The place was simply beautiful. The floor was made of a glossy gray stone that Warren could see was nearly a perfect slab of marble. He didn't dare move his chair, in fear of scuffing such a beautiful floor. The wallpaper was navy blue, very generic, yet it seemed to fit perfectly. Turning his eyes to the table, he noticed how painstakingly careful its creator had been. It was made of a dark wood, possibly Mahogany, though Warren wasn't sure. Resting on top of the table was a sheet of glass, under which was pure beauty: an amazingly detailed carving of the Gods of Olympus.
And that wasn't even all that was in the room. The walls were lined with the busts of famous leaders: Napoleon, Alexander the Great, and Genghis Khan, to name a few. They were made of a pure white stone; alabaster, perhaps? The mineral made a great canvas for a chisel, and Warren had always wanted to work with it. His attention then turned to the far side dining hall. There was a short platform spanning the width of the room. Atop this platform was a small podium from which someone (presumably Baranbull) could address them. Finally, his eyes reached the ceiling. Unexpectedly, it was glass! Crystal clear, too. He could see the clouds floating lazily by, the moon in plain view even though the sky was still blue.
Absentmindedly, Warren pulled the invitation from his pocket. Everything about it seemed high class: the scrawling script, the soft paper, the wax seal and emblem. He remembered when he first received it. His roommate Alyssa (a completely platonic relationship, of course) had brought the letter to his workshop, commenting on how nice it looked. She had seemed giddy from delivering such a letter and had forced him to open it in front of her. It was a good thing she had, too -- if it hadn't been for Alyssa's insistence, Warren wouldn't be sitting where he was, before one of the best buffets he had ever seen. She had broken his skepticism, and the next thing he knew, he was at the airport, en route to Italy, then on a boat to an uncharted island in the Mediterranean Sea. Now he was sitting in a strange dining room with five strangers, waiting for an even stranger man to appear.
Then, as if summoned by his curiosity itself, the large oak double doors that the group came from opened. At once, all six of the guests turned to look. Standing in the doorway was a balding, elderly man in a three-piece suit, and a young, attractive brunette wearing a suit jacket and matching skirt. Warren stared at the man. Surely he could not be the Innmaster, Baranbull? The elderly fellow hobbled towards the podium slowly, the woman following close behind. It just didn't seem possible for this to be the person who had written such a charismatic letter of invitation. The man finally reached the podium, and turned to face the group. His eyes roamed from one person to the next, until he had silently greeted them all. Bringing an old fist to his mouth, he cleared his throat.
"Welcome, honored guests," he spoke, his arms rising to either side of him in greeting. "Welcome, to the Create Inn."
CHAPTER TWO
Delicious.
Delectable.
Divine.
Archie Wilson was sure there were more D's he could use to describe the meal in front of him, but he was too busy stuffing his freckled face to think of them. Reddish-brown hair obscured his features as his head hung low over his plate. A couple of the other guests shot him looks; either they didn't think his shabby outfit (consisting of a stained gray t-shirt, a tattered navy overshirt, and an old, beat-up baseball cap) was fitting for the majestic hall in which they were seated, or they were of the mind that it wasn't proper to eat without their host. Pah. Archie never understood the need for customs and courtesies. The food was in front of him, and so he was digging in.
Besides, he reasoned with himself, how long had it been since he'd had an actual meal? A trip to a restaurant was a once-a-month treat, if that. And he was getting sick of Ramen noodles... even if their Chicken flavor was quite good. The food now in front of him was first-rate, far better than any restaurant the city of Pittsburgh could offer... or, so he assumed. He'd never been to the high-end eateries of his city. He rarely even left his apartment nowadays. Until the day the invitation came...
Bill... bill... catalog offer... you may have won $1,000,000... bill... overdue library book... wait, he'd been to the library?... bill... bill... and... a strange envelope, embossed with a coat of arms he'd never seen before.
Archie paused, examining the envelope curiously. What could it be? It was addressed to him, so it wasn't a mistake. Maybe someone had mailed him Anthrax. ...Why the hell had he just thought that? Hey, it'd be more exciting than a bill, at the very least. Hesitating no longer, he slid an ink-covered finger under the envelope's flap and unceremoniously ripped it open, throwing the letter's empty packaging onto the coffee table.
The letter was hand-written, in a small, looping font. No one should have that kind of penmanship. As Archie scanned the letter, his right eyebrow arched in surprise and skepticism. But as he continued to read, his incredulity began to wane. And when he unfolded the bottom half of the letter, and a plane ticket fell onto the dingy floor, he was absolutely delighted... delighted...
"Delightful!"
...Shit. He'd just said that out loud. And with his mouth full of mashed potato, too. Luckily for him, the other guests' attentions were suddenly focused on the door, through which a small, bald man and a rather pretty brunette had entered. The old man made for the podium at the head of the hall, but Archie was focused on the girl. She was... stunning. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with a steely radiance, and her sleek brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail -- the only thing about her he didn't care for. She would be gorgeous with her hair down. If he judged its length correctly, it would fall splendidly to the tops of her perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small, round, probably -- no, definitely -- soft......
He was so busy ogling the girl that he missed what the old man was saying. Ah, well. Couldn't have been too important. He turned back to his food. Dreamy.
Delectable.
Divine.
Archie Wilson was sure there were more D's he could use to describe the meal in front of him, but he was too busy stuffing his freckled face to think of them. Reddish-brown hair obscured his features as his head hung low over his plate. A couple of the other guests shot him looks; either they didn't think his shabby outfit (consisting of a stained gray t-shirt, a tattered navy overshirt, and an old, beat-up baseball cap) was fitting for the majestic hall in which they were seated, or they were of the mind that it wasn't proper to eat without their host. Pah. Archie never understood the need for customs and courtesies. The food was in front of him, and so he was digging in.
Besides, he reasoned with himself, how long had it been since he'd had an actual meal? A trip to a restaurant was a once-a-month treat, if that. And he was getting sick of Ramen noodles... even if their Chicken flavor was quite good. The food now in front of him was first-rate, far better than any restaurant the city of Pittsburgh could offer... or, so he assumed. He'd never been to the high-end eateries of his city. He rarely even left his apartment nowadays. Until the day the invitation came...
Bill... bill... catalog offer... you may have won $1,000,000... bill... overdue library book... wait, he'd been to the library?... bill... bill... and... a strange envelope, embossed with a coat of arms he'd never seen before.
Archie paused, examining the envelope curiously. What could it be? It was addressed to him, so it wasn't a mistake. Maybe someone had mailed him Anthrax. ...Why the hell had he just thought that? Hey, it'd be more exciting than a bill, at the very least. Hesitating no longer, he slid an ink-covered finger under the envelope's flap and unceremoniously ripped it open, throwing the letter's empty packaging onto the coffee table.
The letter was hand-written, in a small, looping font. No one should have that kind of penmanship. As Archie scanned the letter, his right eyebrow arched in surprise and skepticism. But as he continued to read, his incredulity began to wane. And when he unfolded the bottom half of the letter, and a plane ticket fell onto the dingy floor, he was absolutely delighted... delighted...
"Delightful!"
...Shit. He'd just said that out loud. And with his mouth full of mashed potato, too. Luckily for him, the other guests' attentions were suddenly focused on the door, through which a small, bald man and a rather pretty brunette had entered. The old man made for the podium at the head of the hall, but Archie was focused on the girl. She was... stunning. Her bright blue eyes sparkled with a steely radiance, and her sleek brown hair was tied back in a short ponytail -- the only thing about her he didn't care for. She would be gorgeous with her hair down. If he judged its length correctly, it would fall splendidly to the tops of her perfect breasts. Not too big, not too small, round, probably -- no, definitely -- soft......
He was so busy ogling the girl that he missed what the old man was saying. Ah, well. Couldn't have been too important. He turned back to his food. Dreamy.
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