The morning sun rose over the horizon. It lit the shops and silos, the houses and fields of wheat. It shone through windows and blinded its inmates. And it brought light to the Wayside, where Kote the inkeeper was already up and bustling about.
He moved with a quiet intensity; he sang no songs, nor hummed no tunes. His hands moved, quick and efficient, wiping down bottles and freshening up tables to start the day. The sun slanted in the window, where it reflected off a curious yet dull-looking stick of wood. Only eleven inches long, it was made of the tail hair a thestral and holly feather. Nothing about it seemed impressive.
Even wizards, who weren't commonly found in the area, would find nothing remarkable about the wand.
(Except, of course, if they had heard the legends of the Elder Wand, or the Deathstick, or any of that sort.)
Kote is not the only man in the room. Another man quietly waits, a grey cowl shrouds his face. He holds his mighty weapon of choice in his hand - a pen - and waits to hear what he has come for, the travels and travails of Kvothe the kingkiller.
Kote the inkeeper spoke in a low voice: "Very well, you wish to hear my story, my travels and triumphs, my deaths and disgraces, my alliterative … intricacies?"
"Do you mean aberrations, or, perhaps, abominations?" the grey cowled figure whispered in a tone that matched the inkeeper's.
"No, no, you aren't getting into the spirit at all."
The inkeeper looked agitated. His voice had risen. "Do you, or do you not, want to hear of my exploits and exits, how I loved, then lost. How I trusted, then was traitored."
"You mean betrayed?"
"No, I don't mean betrayed, you fool! That wouldn't alliterative, and traitored is too a word!"
Chronicler shrugged. "Fine by me. Are you ready to start the story?"
"The story? Story? You think this is some idle folktale for children to enjoy at bedtime?"
"Um, yes?"
"Owch!"
After the brief scuffle that ensued, Kvothe sported one dead arm, and Chronicler sported quite a bit more than that. His shoulder was disjointed, his eyes were now black, his nose redder than natural, his breathing heavy and wheezing. But he was alive. That was all that mattered.
"Very well, I suppose that if this is to be a chronicle" - here Kvothe glared at his companion, daring him to make another jibe; but Chronicler remained silent, either he had learned from his mistakes, or his lip was too puffed up to speak - a chronicle of my life, I must start at the very beginning.
"But no, not the very beginning, for that will be far too well-known, and is not important to the story, or at least, the story I wish to tell.
"Let us skip past my brief childhood, my time in Tarbean, and my letter to Hogrwarts. Let us skip past my sorting. Yes, we shall start at the very beginning, when I first met Harry James Potter-Evens-Verres."
