Chapter 1 #3
“Well, that’s just marvelous,” he muttered.
At least, he supposed as he surveyed the room, there was no shortage of tables available.
“Very well. I’ll take a bed in the smallest room, please.
Will this be enough to stay for a moon’s turning?
” He plopped his coin pouch on the counter, inviting the innkeeper to count it.
Honey gaped at Ainsworth. “You want to stay for an entire moon’s turning? For forty nights? Here?” Her tail twitched restlessly behind her. “Our guests typically only stay a night—if at all.” She gestured to the open space, which was notably absent of the aforementioned guests.
“I require a longer stay.” Ainsworth attempted to smooth his wet hair.
He stood taller and straightened the fastener of his cloak.
“Let me introduce myself properly. My name is Ainsworth Gladsly, and I’m a research fellow at the Skarrow Library in Hinslyth.
I am here to make a record of the Misnich Inn and its occupants, to make its presence forever known to history.
I will also be the first to document the accounts of those who attempt to conquer Mount Vengeance, thus helping these adventurers not only to establish a name for themselves, but also to secure their names in songs and tales spread across the kingdom for generations to come! ”
He was slightly breathless when he finished—the rush of words coming unexpectedly, as they often did when he got a chance to talk about his profession, his calling—and it was then he realized that perhaps Lyria could be right, that this project could very much be worth his time and effort.
The brightest, most ambitious adventurers would be cataloged by Ainsworth, their place in history marked by his own hands.
For what greater honor could there be than when, in making a name for yourself, you made a name for others in the process?
Yes, this would be worth it, he told himself. It had to be worth it. If he managed to coax a coherent, interesting history out of this place, perhaps discover the next hero of the Saltquart Kingdom, he would prove his worth—to everyone at the Skarrow Library, and to himself.
“Goodness! How…ambitious!” Honey squeaked, a slight flush to her cheeks.
“Why yes, it is, isn’t it?” Ainsworth smirked, knowing all too well the impressive portrait he and his academic accolades painted.
He ignored the small snort from the direction of the bar.
“Do you— Do you plan on tackling the mountain yourself, alongside the adventurers you seek?” she asked.
“Matron, no!” Ainsworth shuddered. The very idea!
First and foremost, he was not trained in the type of observational research methods that such an endeavor would require.
Instead, he possessed an enviable ability to uncover stories from just about anyone or anything—helping research subjects weave what they thought were mundane aspects of their lives into the significant markers of heritage and history that they were, or tirelessly following the smallest of leads to unearth the importance of seemingly inconsequential objects or documents.
Ainsworth knew his place. He recorded history; he did not make it.
Plus, there was the small matter of his lackluster spellcasting, his meager physical strength, and his lack of combat ability with any weapon whatsoever.
Honey considered him with what he took to be wariness, so he quickly cleared his throat and amended: “Alas, I do not have the provisions or the practical skills for such a task. Instead, I seek to connect with the guests who do possess such things, to ensure their story is never forgotten—as has been the case thus far, I believe.”
“Right. However, there’s just one problem—” Honey began.
Ainsworth held a hand aloft to stop her. “I know; I can see. There are no guests. But surely across forty nights I will encounter at least a handful, and of those I imagine some will be successful in their quest. And in the meantime, I can document the history of this inn.”
“Very well, that’s…nice.” Honey could not seem to look at him, fixing her gaze on her clawed hands instead. “But it isn’t that,” she added, finally looking up at him.
“Whatever else could be the matter?” Ainsworth asked through gritted teeth. Oh, how he longed to sink into a hot bath!
“You see…” Honey began, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, briefly disturbing the small, shining trinkets dangling from her horns.
“In my time as innkeeper, no one who has ever stayed here has actually gone on to Mount Vengeance. Oh, they arrive here full of those intentions. But come the next morning, they all decide not to go through with it. They turn back. Head home.”
A few seconds of heavy silence descended. Ainsworth did not quite let the enormity of her words settle over him.
Eventually, he placed his hands on the counter. “You jest,” he said in a quivering voice that barely carried the weight of his frustration.
“She doesn’t,” called the barman from across the room. “Fancy an ale, lad?”