Wizards and Witches

I'd love to paint, a picture for you, of images in my head. Of a quirky old town, I'll set the scene, as you rise from a crooked bed. The room you're in, whilst large in size, has rather strange design, With five large walls, and storage drawers, with craftsmanship so fine. The room has black, and rotting beams, supporting the floors above. A Tudor look, a few hundred years old, a design in which I love. You walk out of the rooms, down narrow stairs, to be greeted by a landlord. "Welcome my friend, to the Spellmasters inn, whilst adjusting his buckled cord". The cord that keeps, ragged old pants, from visiting his hairy ankles, The jolly old man, with a kind old face, and nostril hairs that dangle. "Welcome my friend", the man bellows again, a voice as a lions roar, "To the town of magic, of wizards and elves, and landlords that can be a bore". You walk outside, of the 'magical inn', and gasp as you look in the air. The chimneys around, blow purples and greens, as potions are made, from hair. For love, you'd need, the hair of the person, in which you do desire. For courage, bravery, fearlessness and luck, i believe it's the hair of a tiger. The streets are cobbled, and grey in colour, the windows of shops are stained. The feel of wonder, of marvellous things, and things which are yet to be explained. You walk down the street, as signs swing in the breeze, as sun trickles down through smoke, To create an effect, seen on the floor, as well, as on your cloak. Like shards of multi-coloured glass, that ripples through like waves, With blues, and purples, pinks and greens, it's strange how the light behaves. You look around, and read the signs, of all the ancient shops, As witches and wizards, walk on by, in cotton tunics and tops. You notice a door, it catches your eye, with a large, and old brass knocker, 'A traveller's rest', is titled above, and a side wall, with a knocker. The door is open, and with curious eyes, you want to take a look, The door creaks open, and to your surprise, is an old and dusty book. You carry on walking, down alleys of cobble, as elves and goblins walk by, You find a bench, and sit for a second, as you look again at the sky. You took the book, which rest in a shadow, and carefully open the page. With delicate touch, and a large deep breath, you sit in a mesmerized gaze. 'WAKE UP', is all that's written there, in bold and aggressive writing. The bench you're on collapses, and darkness overtakes the lighting. Your eyes spring open, you jump out of bed, for what on earth had happened? Surely it can't have been a dream, not something you've imagined? The details of the town, begin to escape, like a long, forgotten world. You go downstairs, like nothing happened, but notice something that's curled. A large, brown package, posted through the door, with curled corners, rips, and tears. You cautiously pick, the package up, and walk, back up the stairs. You open the package, turn it around, and a glittering powder falls out. And then, some hair, then a thud on your knee, which makes you scream and shout. A brown old book, is lying there, in a puddle, of coloured dust. You open the book, and read the first page, 'COME BACK TO US, YOU MUST!'. You feel confused, and in a daze, but carry on, to read, 'COME BACK TO MY INN, WHEN YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES, AND TOGETHER, WE'LL SHARE A MEAD!' - THE SPELLMASTERS INN