De Poort van het Oosten

The very eastern point of Ciniz used to have doors; here, customs had been a long time ago. The place had an inn as well, and the inn survived any other building here. The reputation of this inn was very good, and still travellers will tell the stories of luxury and wealth that were in this inn.
However, De Poort van het Oosten came to an unglamorous end a score of years ago. The official reading is, an enormous thunderstorm threw lightning upon the inn, which burned down and was, during the almost endless war between Ciniz and De Erflanden, never build new again.
The place now is a pasture at the feet of the White Mountains, where some of the old, blackened trees still grow and blossom. A calm brook ripples through the grasses, and some stone structures are still visible - a memory of the inn that once had been the most exclusive one west of Ildritz.

Of course the local peasants will tell a different story. They knew about the luxurious inn, but never went inside as long as they weren't summoned in.
"It was a place of outrageous behaviour" a farmer from Hufa told us.
"Just outside the realm of De Erflanden, just across the border, the high born lords and ladies went there to feast upon our money. Everything that is forbidden in any decent salon was practised there. And the kindins of Ciniz, they didn't know either, because the inn was across the mountains and they hardly ever went there. The inn was so far away, it was out on any gong."
"We heard the music and laughter until deep in the night, stond after stond it went on and on, and we shepherds here in the region we could hear it from far away, such a noise it was. And late in the morning, the lords and ladies would go back to Ildritz, still drunk and dizzy." The old man got a bottle from under his vest and took a sip. He offered us a drink too, but we eyed the bottle suspiciously. "It ain't Tuijon," the old man giggled, and gave us the bottle which contained sparkling clear water, still cold. Then he continued his story.
"But on a beautiful spring day, a gorgeous person arrived at the inn. Nobody could tell if it was a man or a woman, but everybody liked him, or her - it was a perfect match to any one around; it might have been an Ainahawair, some might have thought. It played the tuntallo and sang and danced, and had anybodies attention upon it. And the evening became the most marvellous of any time anyone could remember. The music was better than ever before, the drinks tasted more refreshing, the Tuijon that was served polished the splinters, and in general, everybody looked better than its mirror image." The old man smiled, and his wrinkles did not make his face prettier. The few grey hairs hung down, greasy in the sunlight.
"The man or woman who had played the tuntallo then got a rotalyra and danced with the gorgeous gentlemen and pretty ladies, all alike, and eventually went outside, where the crowd followed its dancy fancy footsteps and lovely melodious music. So they danced in a long row, followed the music, and got further and further from the inn." The old man winks at us, knowingly.
"Of course it was the Witch of Ways that had taken them. They danced after the witch and followed it into the woods and up the pass and into the white mountains, and the crowd was never seen again. The Witch of Ways however, returned to the inn, and set it alight. It burned down to the ground and was never build again, for we, the people here, consider it haunted. Every beautiful spring day, as our adolescents come out of the villages for romance and rivalry under the light of Lukarna, the hurdy-gurdy of the Witch of Ways is heard, and the long row of feasting fine lords and ladies can be seen, a mist dancing on the evening dew, ready to face their fate again."
"And so," we asked the old man, "with this story, the adolescents of the villages here will stay at home, and won't have romances, and don't rival over the attractive young men and women, and they will stay in the sight of their parents until a suitable bride or groom is found?"
"Oh no," the old man replied. "What do you think of us? We are civilised here. And the story is true. No one would want to risk the curse of the Witch." And he winked again, the clever old man, and pushed his smile over his pipe. The strong smell of kemp blossom hung over his head until it faded in the fresh, cold air of the spring evening. He laughed. Then he put his finger in the air.
"Hush," he said, "Do you hear? The hurdy-gurdy of the Witch".
And over the banks of the brook, a serpentine of mist danced on the dew.