An unusual intro

         "Have you heard the one about the cook, the scribe, and the courier? No, I suppose that's not appropriate. How about the miller and the two jackdaws? No, that doesn't quite work either." The old man looked thoughtfully at his audience of five children sitting on the threadbare rug before his simple ladder-backed chair by the fireplace. "Ah! I know what will work. The story of the Demon King and the moon of many colors. Long before the well of time's consistent echo chased the sun across the sky, the moon danced with the river queen, laughed with the pixie court, and sang with..."
         "Don't go spouting that nonsense Dowell," cut a motherly figure bustling into the inn's common room while wiping her hands on her apron. "The little one's don't need nightmare's and they should've been to bed an hour ago already."
         The late hour was evidenced by the dwindling fire, and the youngest child's sleeping form; her head upon her sister's lap.
         The plump woman began shooing the children to their feet. They protested weakly, failed to stifle yawns, as the grandmotherly figure shooed them to bed.
         The old man leaned back, filling his short pipe, as the children's footsteps receded up the stairs. "You know they'll find out eventually Millie."
         Millie pulled a chair to the hearth. "But they're still babies," she said mournfully.
         "And how long until he comes for them?" Dowell said, stoking the fire. He lit his pipe.
         The woman sighed, sitting on a matching chair. "Knowing about the Demon King isn't going to keep them safe."
         "Not unless she—"
         "Well she's not going to," Millie interrupted. "And you know she's not."
         Smoke puffed out as Dowell sighed. "We could talk to her. Try to convince her."
         "Convince her? Convince the Faery Queen herself?"
         Dowell opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "And how are we supposed to find her, Dowell? Besides, she couldn't do anything. You, of all people, should know that she couldn't."
         Tears welled in Millie's eyes, but she blinked them away. Dowell stared at the inn's front entrance. The old oak door was the last thing their son had touched, when he closed it on his way to defeat the Demon King.
         Dowell shook his head. "It's just not right, Millie," he muttered, then pulled on his pipe again.
         Millie sighed, her face down-turned. "It's not right, Dowell. But something's can't be fixed. Not by us. Not anymore. And who else will take care of the orphans?"
         Dowell shrugged, then shook his head ruefully. "We've had this same argument too many times, Millie. You know my answers."
         "Yes, and I wish there was another way," Millie said, her wrinkles creasing into a slight frown.
         Three loud knocks cracked through the air, making Dowell almost lose his grip on the pipe. Millie quietly shrieked in alarm. The two turned toward the door. The knock repeated.