The Old Clockmaker's Inn
In the heart of the bustling city of Charlemagne's Pride, nestled among towering skyscrapers, there stood the Old Clockmaker's Inn. Its antiquated brick facade whispered tales of a time long past, a stark contrast to the steel and glass leviathans surrounding it. But the Inn was not just renowned for its architecture; it bore a unique legend that ran as deep as city's roots.
The Old Clockmaker’s Inn was a lively establishment run by a jovial old man, Alfred, the last in a line of proud clockmakers. Alfred wasn't just a mere host; he was a story-weaver, a historian, a guardian of the city's lore. Ask anyone about Alfred, they'd tell you he could chat the hind legs off a donkey. But the secret to his business didn't lie in his small talk; it rested within a magnificent grandfather clock that held a corner of the main hall. An exquisite piece, adorned with intricate carvings and golden inlays, it towered over everyone, silent, aloof, and majestic. The clock never struck an hour, but its hands turned faithfully, an enigma that spun the Inn's legend.
As Alfred would tell it, centuries ago, during the reign of King Lionel, his great grandfather served as the royal clockmaker. Allegedly, the King, impressed by his craftsmanship, commissioned him a special task—to create a clock that could meddle with time. Plunging into tomes of forgotten lore and harnessing forbidden magic, the clockmaker crafted his masterpiece—a clock that didn't just measure time; it possessed its own rhythm and could alter the flow of hours.
The secret, Alfred explained, was hidden within a shimmering ruby, embedded in the heart of the clock. The magical crystal allowed him to set the time to an hour of a patron's choosing, and inside the Inn, that chosen hour would persist. It was a haven for the weary, for those desperate to steal a moment or two away from the relentless march of time.
One frigid winter evening, a stranger with grim features, garbed in a traveler's cloak, pushed open the creaky wooden doors of the Inn. Stumbling into the pool of warmth, he collapsed onto a cushioned stool by the hearth, exhaustion lining his aged features. Alfred, in his characteristic hospitableness, greeted the stranger with a mug of hot spiced ale, sliding it across the counter.
The stranger pointed at the grandfather clock, curiosity flickering in his eyes. As Alfred wove the clock’s legend and its working, the stranger listened, his gaze never wavering from the majestic timepiece.
Long into the night, the stranger spoke vaguely of wars raging far beyond Charlemagne's Pride and its peaceful lands. He muttered about soldiers weary and wounded, about homes deserted, and families torn apart. Alfred listened, his heart heavy with a foreboding feeling.
As dawn approached, the stranger made an unusual request. He asked Alfred to set the clock to an hour before midnight—the eve of war declaration, a moment before peace turned into chaos. He yearned to stay in the hour where hope still existed, where he could contemplate solutions to avoid the ensuing devastation.
Compelled by the stranger’s desperation, Alfred granted his wish. As he adjusted the clock's hands, a veil of serenity enveloped the Inn, creating a bubble of time untouched by war and pain.
Days melted into weeks, then months. The stranger continued to exist in his chosen hour, contemplating his strategies, writing countless letters to leaders and diplomats, urging them to avoid the inevitable war. Time continued its unfettered march outside the clock’s magic, but inside, hope remained.
The legend of the Old Clockmaker’s Inn grew as the war was eventually averted and peace reigned over the city. And in the heart of Charlemagne's Pride, protected by soaring skyscrapers, the Inn’s grandfather clock ticked on, a silent sentinel to a city that valued time's moments, one hour at a time.