Chapter 1 #2
Ah. He turned to the trunk he had enchanted to levitate and follow behind him.
It was drooping precariously close to the ground, and if he was not admitted soon, he would have no energy to keep it afloat.
“Well, does it please you to know that such an effort is the best of my spellcasting abilities?” Ainsworth rubbed his forehead. “Please, may I—?”
A rush of warmth and light spilled out from behind the guard as the door creaked open. “Ashe? Is something wrong? Oh goodness! Hello!”
The figure peering from behind the door clutched an empty tray against her chest like a small, makeshift shield.
Behind it, full white skirts were restrained behind a brown apron.
She initially poked her head out, then quickly withdrew again with a grimace when she felt the rain hit her.
Two small, curled white horns stuck out from a mass of black, loosely curling hair that fell past her shoulders, stark against cool teal skin.
Her golden eyes shining beneath the wisps of hair covering her forehead were akin to the amber glow of warmth that radiated from the inn.
Ainsworth also noted the presence of a pointed tail resting by her scuffed boots; this could only belong to a tyflan.
Ainsworth sighed before replying. Keeping up courtesy despite the heady weight of exhaustion, as well as his rising irritation at this entire assignment and the guard in front of him, was no small feat. “Good day, ma’am. This guard is refusing entry to this establishment.”
“Ashe! Let the poor fellow inside. Look at the state of him!”
Ainsworth bristled. She was not exactly the epitome of style herself!
Ashe shrugged and shifted the long, gnarled staff she held from one hand to another. “I do not like the look of him, Honey.”
“Well, I never—!” Ainsworth started, but he was quickly drowned out by the rushed apologies of what he now suspected was the innkeeper.
“Ashe, we do not refuse entry to any adventurers! Let him pass, please,” the figure—Honey?—pleaded.
Ainsworth’s relief was short-lived as Ashe replied, “He is not an adventurer.” She delivered another jerk of the chin toward his floating trunk. “He is some sort of merchant. A salesman, perhaps. Just look at the size of that trunk—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
He reddened. His research materials, and fine clothes to uphold his reputation as a scholar, required such a sizable trunk!
“I am not a merchant. And I’ll have you know, my trunk was custom-made in Hinslyth, thank you very much!
” He was truly getting sick of her attitude, and the drifting, savory scent of whatever food was being prepared inside was doing nothing to improve his mood.
“Oh?” Honey cocked her head as she looked him up and down. “Well, if you aren’t a merchant, then who are you? Why are you here?”
He was aghast. “I—I have my reasons, but what kind of inn makes a paying guest justify their reasons for staying?”
“This one!” Ashe replied, at the same time as Honey mumbled: “You have a point, I suppose.”
Ashe threw him a foul look. “What reasons, then?”
The innkeeper put her hand on Ashe’s shoulder, passing through the barrier cast against the rain.
They looked to be of a similar age. If they had the same brief human life span that Ainsworth did, he’d place them somewhere in their mid-twenties.
“How about we let him explain inside, after he’s warm and dry? ”
“That would be very much appreciated!” Ainsworth huffed, glaring at Ashe when she finally stepped aside.
Honey spun on her heels and beckoned him forward.
Ashe’s unwelcoming behavior had put Ainsworth on edge, deepening his misery while riling his temper—so much so that he barely registered the significance of crossing the threshold.
He was finally here—firmly on the way to being the first scholar to record the tales of adventurers who took on Mount Vengeance, and to give an account of the strange inn that offered them respite before the task.
And that had to be a good thing, right?
He quickly found himself in what would be the communal dwelling space of the Misnich Inn, had there been anyone else to share it with.
Just beyond the doorway to the right, Honey hopped behind a small administrative counter topped with a bronze till and a scattering of scrolls.
Behind her and dangling from hooks on the wall, keys brightly reflected the light of the blazing hearth on the opposite side of the room.
Between hearth and counter sat an array of empty, round wooden tables and slim chairs that would have been rustic in style if not for the intricate carving of what looked like ivy leaves adorning the backs.
The carvings mirrored the ivy that swirled and spun around the thick beams of the high ceilings, with some strands trailing down as though striving to reach the inhabitants below.
Ainsworth had a potted ivy plant back at his rooms at Skarrow, but he had never considered letting it run quite so riot.
Irritably, he brushed some away from his antlers before they got tangled.
“Do we have a guest?” wheezed a voice. Ainsworth carefully moved a dense bundle of leaves out of his way and cleared a line of sight to the bar. The scowling eyes of a dwarf, almost hidden under thick brows and a shock of wispy red hair, peered over the counter.
“Yes, we do, Bren!” Honey said. “Yes, we do,” she added in a whisper, as if to only herself.
Ainsworth cleared his throat. “Well, then. I require a private room—one bed, and a desk, preferably.”
Honey gave an apologetic smile. “None of our rooms have a desk, I’m afraid. Nor do any contain only one bed. We don’t offer private accommodation.”