The innkeeper

Furtively, the innkeeper counts the stars in his pastime. Each star a wound, each light a scar. His thoughts are... selcouth, obscure, and arcane. And as the storm rages on and on. And as the innkeeper chants his xenodocheian dreams. His demeanor veiled by indefinite calmness, came to naught, when authorities espied his subtle malice. To this day, denizens and noctivagant inhabitants are yet to discern his true intentions. And as he bids the guests adieu, he remains subdued by weight of thought. You a sheriff, are tasked with assaying the "Inn Of Adiaphoría" as the innkeeper proclaims... But he anticipated this; he knew you were advanting towards him. something shifted in the shadows, though whether it moved of its own volition or by some other hand, you could not tell... Something treacherous and tenebrous... and yet the air seemed to quiver with a peril unnamed, temerariously threatening yet undefined... Somethings, or someone, had inadvertently established a shrouded, inchoate and apotropaic aegis veiled by phantom vein, but a sense of impending damnation still remains, oppressed by the trees psithurism. You knew something was wrong, yet the forest seemed to keep its esoterica's as well as he did. Both seemed attuned to its secrets, yet whether through understanding or cunning, you could not say. The presence of the innkeeper and his inn unveiled pure oscillating obscurity. Many threads remained, unfurling like a tapestry, nonprivy to his arcana, yet perhaps not all were as inscrutable as they seemed. His rites, erratic and of ill-reckoning, performed amidst the harsh zephyrs and biting snow, deep into the nocturnal hours, and most curiously… in meditation far within the forest’s primeval bosk, where the psithurism seemed to echo the stellar ledger he kept. Can you unveil the mystery the innkeeper yields?