March 3, 1601
Like I expected, I will not be able to write in this personal book very often; duty calls. A few relatives from the farms on the outskirts of town came through last night. They come through about once a month to bring rumors of war and sell some of the crops they have grown. They also buy some necessities and take our knickknack possessions that lay around the inn. They try to steal them without making it too obvious. I have never caught them doing so, but it is my hidden guess. They stay the night in one of the many shaggy rooms out back that are over-polished due to Grandma Reganne and my constant cleaning. It isn't normal to keep a place so clean, most don't care.
The inn is like most of the other inn's people describe while coming through. They are strewn here and there along the main traveling roads, usually placed it the scattered villages in this country's fruitless lands. By Grandparents Inn has a main door that comes in from the street and opens up into the common room. Off to the right is the kitchen and the main dinning room, which is more used as a bar now. To the left is a small pathway that leads to the stables. Directly across from the main door, some 30 feet away, is another door that leads to the outside terrace that branches off to four different "place-de-dormir" housing branches, all very compact and small with little hint of its long forgotten dignity and distinction. Which reminds me of what I have been putting off. I have to get a few of these rooms ready for some unimportant guests who are supposed to be coming in tonight.