Ainsley Scavenger, the Superstitious Worrywart






September 2




Treehollow, Silver Sage


Molly (mom), Ginger (sibling)

About Ainsley

Ainsley tries very hard not to let their imagination run away with them, but when you’re a creature with anxiety and a deep love of monster stories, sometimes it’s inevitable. They also try not to isolate themselves from society at large, but sometimes it’s just so much easier to stay at home with a cup of tea, a good book, and your own company.

Ages Throughout the Comic
Page Age Human Years
Belfry is Adopted 18 23
Chapter 1 Start 34 43
Chapter 3 Start 35 44
Chapter 4 Start 36 45

Ainsley's Story

They could feel it. The heartbeat skittering through their body. The lightheaded dizziness. The rising tide of sheer worry looming on the horizon. Ainsley looked at their empty bottle, thinking for the fifty-third time in the last ten hours that they should really get out of the house and ask Twitchel for a refill.

But outside was full of creatures. Creatures who were probably judging. Who said they liked them, but merely tolerated them. And sure, Twitchel's apothecary was only down the road a block or two, but do you know much can go wrong in just a block or two? And really, what's so bad about a heartbeat? It just means they're alive.

And shaky.

And sick.

... They really should get out of the house and ask Twitchel for a refill.

Their heart suddenly exploded into frantic beats and it took them a moment to realize it was because there had been a knock on the door.

"Ainsley," came the gruff growl on the other side of the door.

"C...closed! We're closed!" the marten managed to say, after two tries when no sound had emerged.

"I brought you your meds. Twitchel said you'd run out again but didn't have time to run them by."

Oh no. He knew how much of a screw-up they were. Any normal creature could just walk a few blocks and go get the pills that helped them function. But could Ainsley? No, of course not. Ainsley was wrong. Ainsley was a mistake. Ainsley was--

"AINSLEY. Come take your damn pills before you give yourself a heart attack."

"...coming." The marten crawled shakily out of bed and opened the door to Oakewood standing there, glass bottle in hand. Underneath all the annoyance, they could see the compassion in his eyes. He'd never admit it, ever. But they could see it.

"Thanks, Claude," they whispered.

"Thank me by taking your pills. And tell me next time you're low."

They took a deep shuddering breath. Admitting weakness? Never. But... that would be better than living like this, wouldn't it? Maybe. Possibly.

"Okay." It was like moving a mountain. But Oakewood understood. He nodded.

"Good creature."