Once, in ancient times, the land was plagued by shadows, and the people cried out for succour. By providence, there arose a noble champion — who bore the surname Crown — tempered by ancient magic and blessed by Nyneve herself.

The Fellowship Forged In Fire

And it came to pass that this Crown found hidden in the valley the great dragon matriarch, Aerca, whose scales shone like burnished copper. By some wondrous grace, the beast devoured not the champion, but bowed her head in solemn fellowship. Thus was forged a bond of fire and blood, and the legendary lineage of the Crown dragon riders began.

Those Called Shadow-Bane

So, the family rode upon the wings of these great drakes and waged war against the darkness. With their breath of fire, they cleansed the land of shadows. For it was the custom of this house, that whenever a child of the Crowns’ line was born, a dragon egg was placed in the cradle, that the spirit of the rider and the beast might grow together. And when they came of age, they took to the skies as one, their renown echoing across the realm.

The Departure Of The Dragons

But as with all earthly things, this wondrous era came to a close. For there came a time when the last shadow was banished, the land was made safe, and the dragons’ magic grew quiet. Their noble purpose fulfilled, the grand drakes departed into a deep slumber. And so, the age of the dragon riders faded into a memory of fire in the sky — a tale told by firelight by those who still dream of the chivalry of old.

The Prophecy Of Aerca

But some say that the great dragon matriarch Aerca yet sleeps in her secret sanctuary deep beneath the Copper Crown Suite, awaiting the day when a traveler of true and noble heart shall awaken her, and bring magic roaring back to the world.

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Innkeeper’s Note:

Village historians are deeply divided over the origins of the Copper Crown Suite. One faction fiercely claims the little castle belonged to the aristocratic Crown lineage, pointing to stories of 11 different princesses. Another faction argues vehemently that it was built by the Copper clan — simple, hardworking folk who farmed hazelnuts in Yarrow’s fertile soil. While the truth is lost to time, the text above remains a favourite tale of the Crown loyalists.

Old Mr. Burrows occasionally tells the story of the heavy night-mists that rolled off the Vedder River in the days of his thrice-great-grandmother: Baba Zayka. This was no ordinary fog; it was a grey, weight that settled in the bones, leaving the local rabbits twitchy and the village folk unable to find the quiet side of sleep.

Baba Zayka watched the fog creep toward the timber doors of the Under Hill and knew the burrow was in peril — but she didn’t bolt her doors. Instead, she climbed to the ancient, moon-silvered tree atop the hill and harvested a single, sturdy limb.

Then, in the amber glow of her hearth, she worked with purpose. She rubbed the wood with hazelnut oil until it hummed with warmth and bound bundles of dried yarrow to its base with twine. She wasn’t building a weapon, but a hearth-broom.

As the mists tried to pour over her threshold, Baba Zayka stepped out to meet them. She began to sweep, humming a low, rhythmic tune that echoed the steady pulse of the earth. With every stroke, the yarrow stalks caught at the fog. 

Like wool snagging on a briar, the heavy shadows were pulled from the air and trapped within the bristles. She swept until the air felt light and the valley was clear.

At the first light of dawn, Baba Zayka tapped the broom thrice against the cobblestones. A soft cloud of golden pollen puffed out, filling the garden with the scent of sun-dried yarrow and the weightless promise of a deep sleep.

Mr. Burrows claims — always with a wink — that when the moon is full, you can see that same broom standing guard at his door. He says that when you cross the Under Hill’s threshold, the weight of the world is swept away, leaving you finally ready for a good night’s rest.

For generations out of mind, the Burrows clan has held the Under Hill, a residence so thoroughly established in the hillside that the very roots of the ancient tree above have grown into the ceiling to keep them company.

Its current occupant, one P. H. Burrows, is a leporine gentleman of good sense and better taste.

A Splendid Subterranean Scullery

While his family home might once have been a trifle rustic — not that the old tunnels were ever inadequate, you understand, for a Burrows has never been known to tolerate a draft — his forebears each had a hand in its refinement. Under their care, the Under Hill ceased to be a mere residence and became a masterpiece of subterranean engineering.

His many-greats-grandmother, for instance, believed one should never be more than six paces from a biscuit or a cool drink, and so designed a scullery that could hold enough nibbles to last through a fortnight of heavy rains. From its root-ribbed ceiling, she hung bundles of dried flowers, ensuring the air was perpetually seasoned with the faint, comforting scent of lavender and thistle.

The Silent Sentinels

The bed-nook, too, received a personal touch from Mr. Burrows’ great-great-grandfather. Being a fellow of deep sentiment and perhaps a touch of superstition, he felt his room required “watchers” — silent sentinels to preside over his peaceful slumber. He set his chisel to work upon his stout bedposts, and now, there dwell a pair of hand-carved owls. These are not the screeching, flighty sorts that pester one in the dark woods, but owls of a most dignified and sedentary character.

The Liquid Depths

Throughout all these improvements, the family remained steadfast in their disdain for verticality. “Steps,” they were often heard to mutter, “are for the flighty and the feather-brained.” Consequently, the renovations ensured the entire burrow remained perfectly level, allowing visitors with wheeled-conveyances to navigate with ease.

Perhaps the most “progressive” addition, however, was the ultra-deep soaking tub set between massive stones. Mr. Burrows’ own grandfather spent many an afternoon ensuring it was the exact depth required for a gentleman to submerge himself entirely, leaving only his nose above the water.

A Sudden Departure

Mr. Burrows thoroughly enjoyed the peace and quiet the Under Hill provided, but one morning at breakfast, he had a peculiar notion. “It’s a day,” he murmured to his reflection in a polished spoon, “to see a bit of the world.” Donning his finest waistcoat, he stepped outside and into the golden wash of sunlight. He did not really mean to go on an adventure, but one thing led to another, and off he’s gone.

While he’s away, he has left his Under Hill refuge for those weary travellers who seek to live, for a time, with a bit of comfort — we hope you will come for a visit soon.