<We’re doing this the old way. This is half the chapter—the other half comes out on Tuesday, October 6th! Prepare your butts and check in then! Also note the new posting schedule! 2-1-1!>

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A question for you. What is love?

He wouldn’t know. He’d never known, not really, and it was the kind of realization that poured into the mind, seeping in through the ear as you lay with your head glued to the sticky counter of a bar past midnight. Like a syrupy-sweet drink, rotting your teeth and poisoning your insides, delivering cold truths decades too late.

A shame that these revelations, burning in the mind like painful Phoenixes, belonged to such a dull man. He’d feel his heart tearing, start shaking with loneliness or regrets—or sometimes, rarely, triumphs—and then look up. But Doren Issk would not see a young man who could pretend he was handsome enough, fit enough, or youthful enough to have a future, potential, dreams.

No, instead, he was presented with his own balding head, valiantly protected by a dying combover, hairs lying slick against his scalp, long jowls and a body that was used to sitting in a chair for eight plus hours a day. A middle-aged man, the ignorable shopkeeper in every store. But he wasn’t even a [Shopkeeper]. He was just Doren, heir to the magical pawnshop, Cormeng’s Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop.

That was fine. He’d made his peace with being heir to a grander man’s legacy, to being profitable, if not important, if not respected, if not loved or meaningful…and he might have been happy—

He might have been content—

He might have pretended that was fine until he died or retired.

But his heart betrayed him. Heart failure ran in his family line. Doren had used to take a healing potion every week on Lundas, prescribed by a [Healer], which might have helped stave it off. With the shortage of potions, he’d done without.

It was one of those things he didn’t think about. And that wasn’t the way his heart betrayed him. It wasn’t in the faltering beats…it was when it raged and thundered, telling him to fling open the doors of his magical shop and roam out, seeking love, meaning, anything but the life he was living. It didn’t belong to a man in his position.

Doren had a daydream. Well, he had lots. You had plenty of time, even with a magical pawnshop to run, and one of his was that some attractive lady would walk in, be swept off her feet by the novelty of a Rulebreaker, a man with depths he hoped he had, and fall in love. Convince him to leave his shop, and he’d go out into the world, gain a class, and become…

The dream got harder each year he got older. When he was eighteen, old enough to work the store without needing family to mentor him, it was a common occurrence, and he’d stare—too long—at guests coming in. But never be brave enough to strike up a conversation.

The dashing lady was sometimes a damsel in distress, and his magical store would whisk her away. She was a [Princess], a [Lady] of the Five Families, a Wall Lady of the south, a Gnoll, a Stitch-woman—his dreams weren’t picky. But then he got older, and the idea of him being an eligible hero clashed with, well, his advancing age. The ladies got older in his imagination, but then Doren usually wondered if they were married, and he envisioned him fighting some angry husband or lover; his ego was unable to deny how well that would go.

But he still dreamed. From daily wishes, they became weekly. Then every few months. Then once or twice a year he’d be restless, snappy, and prickly. Because the heart grew older, and he made a kind of peace with the life he was living. Stopped wanting to leave, because, well, he hadn’t managed to do it already.

Then he was fifty-two years old. He would look up, see himself in the mirror, and the dreams would die stillborn. Yet his heart still tried. Again and again, occasionally bothering him, and he feared it would be his death before he retired. But he was winning; he ceased to dream more than once a year. Sitting in his shop, collecting dust and coins and trinkets.

So unhappy he had forgotten what laughing was like.

Then the skeleton ran into his shop. The skeleton, the slime, and the undead girl. It had led to a lot of things happening. Doren’s aunt being put in a [Healer]’s with a fractured skull.

His entire family trying to take his shop from him.

Him running away from his home, moving to a town in the Unseen Empire.

A bunch of [Goths] having a tea party in his store twice a week.

A newspaper exchange program. A gossip corner—

And his damn heart had gotten ideas again. Only, this time, Doren feared he was sick. Ill in the head.

Because his heart was winning. He missed Toren, Maviola, and the Healing Slime. Not even in the sense of…

No, that was the question, wasn’t it?

What is love?

Doren didn’t know. He’d never had a relationship that had gone the distance, burned as hot as he felt it should have, been fulfilling as his dreams.

But love?

He missed that silly skeleton—and yes, he’d figured out Toren wasn’t really some Drake way before Toren had left, especially when he decided to change genders. He missed Maviola and the slime. Not in the sense of love as he normally thought of it. He missed them like children he’d never had. He missed them like friends. Co-workers. Equals who made this store come alive.

So, this was Doren’s madness.

——

He was up late at night, again, a month after Cormeng’s had shifted locations. Mad. Utterly mad with heartbreak.

Again, not in a sexual way. But when he turned his head, he could see Maviola leaning over the counter, giggling like a child, lighting candles with flicks of her fingers as the Healing Slime played chess or followed Toren around as he swept through the pawnshop.

It was still somewhat organized. But the dust was already returning, and spiders, and Doren didn’t have the strength…he peered down the shelves filled with things that people sold to him.

Clothing, most of it cheap or worn. Racks of it hanging next to shelves of gemstones, most cheap, cracked, or just glass.

Dubious potions that were failed alchemical concoctions gone bad, pottery, art that no one wanted in their homes, furniture that was mostly good; a missing knob on a dresser, a conspicuous scratch marring quality wood.

He didn’t pay for things that were worthless. Doren did have an eye for what would sell. He bought at less than the item was worth and marked it up a bit more than it should go for. Made gold that way by virtue of the store’s massive inventory.

Cormeng’s was actually fairly rich. True, the way it had been was that Doren gave most of the proceeds to his constantly growing family, and they lived off of his labors. That was the tradition of Cormeng’s descendants. The legendary owner of the pawnshop probably wouldn’t have been happy…but it was the life forced upon Doren.

Still, one could not run a pawnshop without a decent stash of coins. Cormeng’s had almost gone bankrupt in previous generations because the family had tried to take too much; there was a sizable coffer of gold coins for repairs, bribes, and buying new merchandise for the shelves.

Doren had never touched it since he was actually fairly honest; he’d had the vague sense the family might audit him. They never had, for forty years, so he supposed he could have stolen it, but it had made for a very useful stash of coins to effect his getaway plan.

Now he was in Ivolethe’s Landing and, well…living in a city, but he seldom went out of Cormeng’s. He was doing his usual thing. Running the pawnshop across many cities. Terandrian, Izrilian, making money, and not giving it to his family, so Cormeng’s was richer than ever.

Thoroughly miserable.

Missing Toren, Maviola, and Healing Slime. Like a man mourning a lover—only the love was just ‘happiness’.

This was how it came out at 2:17 AM in the morning. Doren was standing in his pawnshop, ostensibly alone. Cormeng’s was closed, the door locked. A faint glow from the counter was the only illumination. A permanent light-spell by the door.

The darkness didn’t scare him. He knew this pawnshop like the back of his hand. But Doren didn’t go upstairs to the little bedroom he’d set up. He just bounced on the balls of his feet, then fumbled with something.

After a moment, the little crystal in his hands lit up. A soulful woman’s voice began to sound from the song crystal.

The Singer of Terandria, Cara O’Sullivan, singing a love song. A breakup song. This was a new song crystal; he bought them regularly since everyone liked them. It had colors and filled the store with a dark red and pink, a kaleidoscope of emotions.

His head came up, and the balding shopkeeper stared around. Then he began to twirl in place. Awkwardly. Stumbling, then his restless feet carried him through the store. Like a man chasing ghosts. Dancing—he couldn’t really leap or pirouette. But he tried, avoiding hitting anything. Twirling in a dance that made sense only to him.

He even tried singing along—once. Hearing his own voice nearly ruined the music for him, so Doren stopped. It wasn’t like he could gain the [Singer] class, anyways. Cormeng’s descendant wasn’t allowed to have classes. The one rule Cormeng had put on his heirs was that they had to be like him: classless.

Curse him.

Doren kept dancing through his store. He should have been completely unnoticed; no one could enter Cormeng’s after hours except for maybe a Level 60+ [Rogue]. The store wasn’t perfect. It could be taken by hostile people, but it was beyond even most Level 40 threats by virtue of its protections.

The only way you could spy on Doren was if you had cunningly left magic inside, like the Immortal Tyrant had once done to manipulate an [Innkeeper] in a grand plan that Doren had only been part of because he was convenient.

Or…

If you were, hypothetically, a [Goth] Goblin named Gothica. In which case, you’d snuck back into Cormeng’s to avoid Rags giving you work and had been planning on napping, eating some of the food he’d stockpiled, and scaring Doren at some point in his sleep.

Only—the young [Goth] watched as Doren danced, revealing a side of himself so personal it made her uncomfortable. More than standing up and shouting by accident during an official meeting. More than tripping in front of everyone and them laughing at you or farting so loud everyone turned to stare.

This was…personal. She’d never really cared about Doren. The other guy, Toren, had been more fun. Doren was just this old Human who owned this place. Stuffy, boring. Sure, he kept the Twilight Sanctuary and gave them free tea and snacks, but he was just…

She watched him dancing, and his face was so painful, so rapt, like a man straining for something out of reach. She’d thought only Redfangs looked like that, when they were climbing cliffs, trying to surpass the image of Garen each one had in their heads. Seeing some Human who had never stabbed someone to death looking so—she didn’t even have the words for it—made the [Goth] uncomfortable.

She kept hiding behind some curtains as Doren passed by. Then she crept towards the door, abandoning her plans to scare him. Some things were [Goth].

Telling important people to eat shit. A penchant for darkness and negative things, and a fascination with death, the macabre, sure.

Making fun of dancing Humans in the night…pass.

She glanced back once as Doren stopped in his store. An outline illuminated only by a little glow of red and orange. Peering down at the piece of magic in his hands and sitting in some antique furniture, because he was already tired after dancing for only six minutes. Eyes crinkling up with regrets and…

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The door opened and closed as the [Goth] crept out. She really, really hoped…that didn’t mean he was closing his shop. How was she supposed to talk to all her friends otherwise?

——

The next day, Doren was tired. He opened the shop at regular hours, welcomed people in automatically, and ran the business on autopilot since that was what he knew. But the feeling from last night was still in him.

He really couldn’t go back to his old life, could he? Toren had shattered something in him. Not something important. More like his calcified shell. Erin Solstice, she’d given it a good thwack, but she hadn’t had the time. But Toren…

“Good morning, Gothica. There’s a pot of tea brewing.”

The Cave Goblin jumped as Doren identified one of his guests he knew. She turned.

“Uh…is hi, Doren. Thanks for tea.”

He peered at her. Normally, she didn’t say ‘thank you’ to anyone. Even the other Goblins who sometimes came in to get her—well, she was in disguise today. She looked like a half-Elf kid, but Doren had access to Cormeng’s magic. He could tell when someone was under an illusion, even if it was a Skill.

It was one of the ways he kept safe; even [Rogues] were easy to spot if they came in using a Skill. People were often overconfident about their Skills. But Cormeng had learned magic that could defeat even Skills. It was called Skillbreaker’s Sight. A spell that was not a spell in the traditional sense of things.

Odd magic, really. Doren casually adjusted the intensity of the spell as he flicked some powder from a bag onto his fingers and rubbed his eyes with them, muttering the amplification words. It stung like the dickens, but he was used to it. Gothica’s true face became clearer; a grey Goblin with sharp teeth smiling at him awkwardly.

“Everything alright, Gothica?”

He eyed her, suspecting she’d broken something in the Twilight Sanctuary again, but she protested.

“Is fine! I didn’t do anything! Uh…here!”

She pressed something at him. Doren blinked and saw a huge loaf of…bread?

It was green. He eyed it, sniffed it, and determined it wasn’t actually moldy—just green. Green dough, green onions sprinkled on top, green…he sniffed again.

“Is this tea?”

“It green bread. Very, uh, patriotic or something. Ch—Lilbrasi made it. Is for you.”

“It smells like tea.”

“Yah, that the green tea. And onions. And broccoli.”

Apparently, someone in her home city had made green bread. The ingredients were dubious, but when Doren sampled some, it was fresh and actually quite tasty despite the blend of ingredients. Fragrant more than savory, but he imagined it’d go well with a cheese.

“Thank you. What did you break this time?”

“Nothing! Swear on my immortal darkness heart!”

“Hmm.”

Well, if she was swearing on her immortal darkness heart—maybe she was just being grateful? He nodded to her, and she walked on, appearing a bit harried. A few more [Goths] entered after her.

A young [Lady] with white face paint over her tanned skin, dressed like a drowned bridesmaid, all white tattered clothing. A Drake with scales like midnight, teeth literally glowing when he smiled. A Gnollish mother putting on fur dye around her face to look like a masked bandit…

An odd lot, you might say, and newcomers to Cormeng’s certainly asked questions and stared. But Doren loved them. They were a legacy of Toren’s work. The [Goths] made his day better when they met every Tirenv. He wished they’d meet every day.

Not that he was a [Goth], but they brought color to his shop. If they met every single day, if they had wanted to make his store a base, well, it’d be mighty inconvenient since most didn’t pay, they harassed guests, and they were loud, rude, and messy—

But it would have been enough.

Yet the conclusion of last night was in Doren. He sat there as the door opened, letting in a gaggle of six Drakes from Marwsh. They stared about, exclaiming, and he pointed them at the board which they could list where they were from on. Waited for the penny to drop.

“Wait—this is that shop! The one Mits was talking about! Ancestors!”

He smiled when he saw one of their eyes widen. Then, behind them came a trio of [Storm Sailors]. Had to be Zeres or a coastal city. Doren consulted a list that contained the cities he had connected Cormeng’s to. One of them blinked.

“Th’ hell’s this? This ain’t the bar…oi, shopkeep! Is this Tawny’s Tats?”

“The tattoo parlor? You must be from Zeres. You’re the third group who’s come in the wrong store. It’s a street over. This is Cormeng’s Emporium of Antiquities.”

“The what?”

The [Storm Sailors] were fractionally faster on the draw than the Drakes. One nudged the others, sniffing the air.

“Doesn’t smell like the sea. The hell’s this? Someone playing a trick on us or…?”

A hand fell to a cutlass until Doren explained hurriedly what was going on, then they were agog too. He watched the Drakes from Marwsh turning and exclaiming, and seeing their stupefaction, the expressions of people meeting someone hundreds of miles away, was grand.

But not enough.

——

The problem was…nothing came of these moments. Oh, sure, it was a story for all his guests. The Drakes from Marwsh bought a few trinkets, some jewelry, and the Storm Sailors actually grabbed some chairs they fancied they could put in their ship. Good business, and people who realized they were in a magical shop felt the need to buy.

From a business perspective, this was great. But the problem was…they wouldn’t come back. Maybe once or twice to show friends, if they could find Cormeng’s, but they’d lose interest. This was a story to tell people. It did not change their lives, and Doren realized he wanted something more.

He wanted…

Gothica and her band of unlikely misfits were joining hands in the Twilight Sanctuary as a Storm Sailor sucked on a drink of ‘bubble tea’. What exactly that was, Doren had no idea. It was something they’d brought in with them. One of the many new food trends that swept across cities.

It looked like floating, glowing green bubbles in the drink that were sucked up a straw. The [Storm Sailor] was clearly happy as she watched—and the floor show was something.

“High as a Harpy! Light as a feather! High as a Dragon! Darkness lift us upwards!”

They had formed a ring and were chanting as they lifted the young [Lady] through the power of…chanting? Or their auras.

To Doren’s magic, it looked like a mix of magic and auras, which were colored differently. It was pulsing upwards like some kind of geyser. The girl in the center was spread-eagled, her clothing rippling upwards as they lifted her into the sky.

“What the f—”

The [Storm Sailor] checked her drink. Then pulled out a flask and poured rum into it. Kept sipping her tea. Doren watched twelve [Goths] defying gravity.

Cormeng’s diaries indicated that flight was a real bitch to master without levels. He had thousands of diaries; the man had kept plenty of notes. Most were his grandly exciting experiments and adventures. But he filled a lot with magical studies—all without levels. His claim was that you had to be at ‘least level 30 in a specialist class’ to defy gravity for any long amount of time. Flying, according to him, wasn’t worth the cost unless you had classes.

One of the things the ‘classed’ had on ‘improvisers’, in his parlance. But Doren rather imagined even old Cormeng would have given it to the [Goths]. Most of them were under Level 20 as their classes were new. Gothica might be over Level 30, but he doubted even she’d levelled that high.

So they were achieving levitation by virtue of their classes. Whatever a [Goth] was, it was adaptable and powerful.

When the [Lady] finally landed and the chanting stopped, her cheeks were flushed, and she ran around hugging everyone.

“I felt like I could fly into the sky! If only we could meet in person outside, not just here! Gothica, how did you know that would work?”

Gothica, the leader of the group, smiled superiorly as everyone turned to her.

“Psh, is easy. I heard [Witches] talking about it. This some fancy ritual they do. So I thought—if they did it, why not us?”

“Wait, we’re stealing [Witch] magic? Are we allowed to do that?”

That came from Miss Asgeir, the Gnoll woman. She’d initially been worried about the [Goths], especially with all the younger folk attracted to Gothica’s class, but now she was an [Acolyte of the Night]. Many of the [Goths] were keeping their true classes secret, but some, like Lady Isby, had come out to their family, and some had even gained support given how fast they were levelling.

“Why not? We’re [Goths]. We can steal whatever we want if it’s cool.”

Gothica scoffed, and the words may have been bravado, but to Doren, they rang truer than Gothica knew herself. He wondered if her class was just able to…steal anything that was sufficiently dark or cool enough.

“Hells. What’s that, some kinda [Mage] class? Darkness-themed?”

The [Storm Sailor] had to ask Doren as the [Goths] argued over who got to levitate next and what other rituals they should try. He explained about their class, and she frowned.

“Anyone can get the class? Seems damned powerful. Why’ve I never heard of it? I’ve sailed t’ all five continents.”

“It’s a new class. I’m not sure how powerful it is in a fight, but it levels from just being, well, a [Goth]. [Storm Sailors] level whenever they’re at sea, right?”

“And on land. Being off-duty in a port’s a [Sailor]’s lot. Yeah, why?”

She eyed him, and Doren nodded to Gothica.

“Well, a [Goth] can be a [Goth] all the time. Most of the ones here weren’t [Goths] two months ago. Now all of them are pushing Level 20.”

“You don’t say.”

The Human woman’s brows shot up. She eyed the group, and Doren held his breath, hoping she might go over and ask Gothica about what was going on. A [Goth] at sea…

Sadly, it was not to be. The woman shook her head.

“I’ve taken enough time. We were supposed to get tattoos, and we’re shoving off tomorrow. Argh, another time if this place is back. Nice shop, sirrah. You got a trash can?”

He sighed, pointed, and she tossed her drink in it and left. He supposed he might see her again, but there it was.

If only she’d stayed. If only she’d become a [Goth]! It was utterly selfish, he knew. He just wanted to feel like he mattered. He wanted that experience Toren had cultivated, that Erin Solstice had in her inn. A place that changed people’s lives.

Madness, you see? Doren wasn’t glum, especially after seeing the ritual activate twice more and a Terandrian woman began to shriek about necromancers, Gothica chasing her away. But he was a bit maudlin when he saw them off that evening.

“You, uh, not mad about me scaring that lady? I didn’t bite her. Promise.”

Gothica eyed Doren, and he assured her it was fine.

“I’m relaxing my standards on [Goth] bites. Just don’t chase off anyone who doesn’t hassle you first. Thank you for the bread.”

“You sure you good?”

“Absolutely.”

Did he look off today or something? Doren eyed himself in a mirror, but he didn’t look worse than normal. Not better…dead gods, he pulled at the bags under his eyes. Felt at some liver spots. Sighed. Gothica just kept staring, then smiled.

“You, uh, is doing good. See you next Tirenv, Doren!”

Bemused, he waved her off. Then he closed up his shop, locked the door, and went back home.

——

Home…was an apartment in the city of Ivolethe’s Landing, a growing city in the Unseen Empire. It was under the authority of Lady Rie, and that meant that under her ‘domain’, people in the city took on a bit of her nobility. Something to do with the Unseen Empire.

As he was not really a resident here, Doren didn’t get the effects of Laken Godart’s power. He could have used it; he swore one of his neighbors had been like him, a balding man, if not as old, but he had a new head of brown hair and seemed to have a more erect posture these days. Like he was a bit more gentlemanly.

Doren, by contrast, slouched his way into his apartment, found a table, a chair, and zero other things in the apartment. It was his…home.

He had to rent a home to keep Cormeng’s anchored somewhere. But since he had his own rooms in Cormeng’s, he just never bothered to decorate. In fact, he had exactly three plates, one chipped glass cup, and a fork, knife, and spoon he washed. He’d had them for over a decade, and he sat himself down for dinner.

Dinner was Gothica’s loaf of green bread and some cheese and salami. A treat; it was an unusual meal. Normally, Doren would scuttle over to a restaurant, buy whatever he could bring back to his apartment, and eat it there. He grew tongue-tied in public, and he had, again, plenty of food in Cormeng’s. He’d bought enough supplies to hide away from his family for months upon months. Far too much.

Anyways, the bread was fresh and higher-quality than he normally bought since he was cheap with coin. He ate half the loaf with the cheese and salami, smacking his lips and drinking deeply from a canteen. The water was a bit stale, but it washed the food down well. He was resolving to compliment Gothica next time they met when he realized he was out of water.

Nothing for it but to go to the well. He could go back to the store, but it would be good to see the city he was in. He hadn’t left his apartment in…

16 days? Naturally, he went to Cormeng’s every day, but sometimes landlords got worried he was dead. Good to see the sky, even if it was almost night. Doren walked over to the door, unlatched the chain deadbolt, and stepped out into the warm summer’s night. He inhaled, smelling fresh pines from a nearby forest, the scents of a city, someone cooking—heard a babble of voices.

Almost turned around and left. Then steeled himself—the well water was fresh and tasty. He’d just fill his canteen.

Doren got six steps outside, realized he didn’t know if he had his keys, then patted his pockets and turned.

That was what saved him. He saw the figures rising from their positions around his first floor apartment’s door. They had been surprised; that was why they were slow to rise. But one shouted.

“It’s—hells—it’s him! Get him before he—”

Doren froze up. That was what regular people did in the face of adversity. But he’d been robbed at knifepoint enough times to step towards the door before the figures began running at him. He tried to close it—someone stuck an arm in the way.

“Doren Issk! By order of Caltichet’s Watch, you’re under arrest for stealing Cormeng’s Emporium from the Issk family! Don’t run! Don’t—”

Oh no.

[Bounty Hunters]. Or [Mercenaries]. His family had found him! How? He’d been so careful—

He hadn’t changed his name. He’d paid for the Driver’s Guild, and they’d taken him here—it wasn’t that hard to find him. Idiot! Doren backed up, stuttering.

“I—you can’t—d-don’t—”

What he meant to say was, ‘I’m no thief! This is my store, and if my family weren’t selfish cowards, they’d come after me themselves! You can’t take it from me! Don’t you dare enter my domicile, knaves!’

Or some such. He stumbled backwards as the [Mercenary] forced the door open. It was an imposing woman with…well, she didn’t actually have a blade drawn. She pointed at him.

“You’re coming with us. Don’t resist or we’ll beat you.”

“N-no. I’m not—this is my—”

The door. Doren glanced over his shoulders. Cormeng’s shop only opened as a regular shopfront for visitors. But for him…an ornate doorway was sitting behind him. The [Bounty Hunter] spotted it, cursed.

“Don’t you—”

He ran towards it. Doren had a hand on the doorknob when she seized his arm, wrenched him around. The rest of the mercenaries were coming through his apartment door, shouting. Doren tried to grapple with the woman, but she was far stronger than he was.

The classed were always stronger than he was. She was trying to force him onto his knees, wrenching one arm up.

“Don’t. Please—I’m innocent.”

“Nine days of waiting for you to show your ass! You’re to be tried, and that store’s coming with us! Don’t resist or I’ll beat you!”

She raised a fist as another man drew a club. Doren was shaking. His face was screwed up with pain. He stared up at her and imagined his family.

Take his shop? He’d put forty years of his life into it. Forty years and they’d never thanked him. His aunt—Toren shouldn’t have hurt her that much.

But he’d been right. They just wanted Cormeng’s back to make money. They’d force the least-liked member of the family to run it. Put Doren in jail or just punish him. Saddle someone else with this burden for decades. They didn’t deserve it.

Breaking. Doren was breaking. Toren hadn’t done it. He’d just unearthed the real Doren, the man who wanted more than this misery. Now…the middle-aged man was gasping.

“Please don’t.”

“Shut up. Hey, help me with him before I have to break his arm—”

——

The shouting from within the apartment had not gone unnoticed. In fact, the [Bounty Hunters] loitering around Doren’s home had not gone unnoticed either, but they had only been sitting about until now.

In Lady Rie Valerund’s lands, efficiency, probity, and intelligence were watch-words. Hers would be a sophisticated, important part of Laken Godart’s territory. It was known Lady Rie was a woman of astonishing capabilities, and her subjects and governance led itself to the same mentality.

So she had…a Watch of kinds. They called themselves the Emperor’s Hands. They were like elite [Guards] who went and investigated things in Lady Rie’s domain—an initiative she hoped to convince Laken of implementing across his growing empire. This group had been watching Doren’s apartment as well as the [Bounty Hunters], but it had taken a moment to mobilize when the man had appeared.

A group of six were striding towards the apartment, intent on arresting everyone. Then, the mysterious Doren would be escorted to a meeting with one of Lady Rie’s subordinates, and even the [Lady] herself if he was important enough. If he was a valuable asset, it might even come to Emperor Godart’s attention.

The actions of a [Lady] who valued knowing and controlling her domain. Efficient enough. They had yet to fully level or develop their organization, but they would have saved Doren and stymied the [Bounty Hunters]…except for the part where they weren’t needed.

The shouting inside the apartment had grown louder as the group of the Emperor’s Hands prepared to charge in. Two had taken positions by the doors, and their leader was drawing breath to bellow when there was a flash from inside.

A wumph of light—then the first [Mercenary] went cartwheeling past the Emperor’s Hands.

Cartwheeling. She landed, bouncing on the ground, and one of the enforcers of the law stared at her arm. It was twisted around backwards. The [Bounty Hunter] was just as surprised. She stared at her arm, then began screaming.

“Spellcaster! He’s not supposed to—’

A voice from within, speaking words that no one had heard before. A spell? But it didn’t sound like [Fireball] or—

A second wumph. The windows exploded outwards, and the Emperor’s Hands ducked. But what emerged from the windows wasn’t fire or light, but just…cotton?

It looked like it. It looked like a yellow cloud if it were a solid thing. A mass of it—and when the Emperor’s Hands leapt up and tried to enter, they found it was inside the apartment. Just…thick clouds.

Ensnaring the mercenaries. Trapping them, struggling, in the air. That was all they saw before the magic faded.

Confused, immobilized mercenaries, one with a broken arm, an empty apartment, hauntingly unused…and nothing more.

No Doren.

The mysterious shopkeeper was gone.

——

It was the third time in his life that Doren had used one of Cormeng’s magical spells. The offensive ones, at any rate.

He was so badly shaken he just lay inside Cormeng’s shop for a good forty minutes before he could get up. There was a reason he’d never fancied himself a great magician; he froze up in moments of stress.

And besides, Cormeng’s magic was…weak.

Not weak in the sense it was useless. Doren could see through Skills, and the shop was enchanted well. Those were two defensive options, but they just weren’t like conventional magic.

[Mages], now, [Mages] could point, say ‘[Fireball]’, and a room was burnt toast in a second. Cormeng’s magic was weird.

You had to do three things with Cormeng’s magic. First, prepare a bunch of ‘reagents’ for the spell. Second, memorize an incantation you had to speak exactly right or it failed or backfired. Third, you had to inscribe a complex little rune to ‘prepare’ the magic and load it. When Doren finally got up and staggered into one of the back rooms where he kept the ledgers, he saw the runes.

Two were charred and black, no longer the neat inscription of magical glyphs on the prepared workbench where they belonged. He almost groaned; it was the work of hours to reproduce them. But then he thought better of it.

Weird or not, they’d saved his life. He began to shakily measure out more reagents into a little pouch—then stopped. He slid down, putting his hands over his face.

“They sent [Bounty Hunters] after me? [Bounty Hunters]?”

How could his family…? He knew he’d run off, but they’d been threatening to beat him! Arrest him! They—they—

They wanted Cormeng’s back. Most of his family didn’t have proper jobs. Without its income, they were all in trouble. He knew they were reliant on him, and guilt and shame twisted Doren’s insides. He thought of his young nieces and nephews for a moment. Then he thought of Aunt Markine and the others.

His guilt faded as he thought of the mercenaries. Damn them. If the family had known where he was, they could have sent a [Message]. Talked about it. Instead, they’d hired thugs to just hit him over the head and—

“I can’t go back. If they know I’m in Ivolethe’s Landing…they might send people through the door from the other end. Damnit. I—I—”

He began to hyperventilate, then just sat there. His heart…Doren felt at his chest, but it was beating steadier than he thought possible. He’d been held at knifepoint in his shop before. He’d escaped, and he had food, and they hadn’t gotten anything from him.

Slowly, he sat up and realized he’d lost his plates, cup, knife, fork, and spoon. His time-worn companions of over a decade. Cheap ceramic, tinmetal he could bend on anything hard…Doren felt a pang. Then he stared at his hands.

No going back to his apartment. He was in danger now. There was no going back and throwing himself on their mercy. He’d thought of it all month, but the bridge was well and truly burned, wasn’t it?

Smiling. He had to find a mirror to make sure of it.

But there it was. A crazy smile on his face.

——

The next morning, Doren ate his breakfast on Drathian plates, pale white and blue. The designs were of twisting birds flying around the rim, truly elegant, and he handled the silverware—literal silver—awkwardly.

It was a silly thing. But there were some antiques in Cormeng’s store. The price on them was high, and, well…he needed something to eat on, right?

When the door opened and his guest walked in, just as he’d hoped, Doren looked up. The first thing Gothica said was—

“Hey, that plate cool. You selling it?”

He smiled at her as she admired his plate and cutlery. Doren was sitting at his counter, and he nodded.

“It’s…very expensive. And I’m just using it for breakfast.”

“Oh, okay. Hey, where everybody? I, uh, here to buy things. For work.”

Gothica pulled a face. She had a list of items she was supposed to look for. Doren was just glad she was here. He hadn’t been sure if she’d come here, but Gothica usually poked her head in every day. This was a kind of sanctuary for the [Goth]; the one place where Chieftain Rags wouldn’t bother her. However, unlike normal, the store was entirely empty despite it being midday. Gothica frowned. Even on an off-day, Cormeng’s had dozens of people inside because it served so many cities.

But today, there was only one working entrance to the door. And that was in…

“I, um, I had an incident with some individuals yesterday, Gothica. Mercen—thugs, really. Cormeng’s is closed except to trusted people. You—could you do me a favor?”

Her face instantly became intent and a bit worried.

“You is mugged? Where? I can beat them up for you.”

She produced her razor umbrella, and Doren waved his hands hurriedly; he knew she was high-level, but she looked like a child to him.

“No, no, I got away! But I’m…I can’t go back. They might be waiting for me. So, um—could I ask a favor?”

“…Sure?”

Gothica inspected Doren for injuries, but he was unharmed. The man gestured at his plate.

“I’m set for provisions. And I don’t need to leave for…well, I don’t have to so long as I have food. But, uh—”

“You need food? We got some in Gob—I mean…Gothhome. Yah. Gothhome. Where I live. Not much, but I can get some.”

Gothica knew they were actually sort of short on food ever since the [Palace of Fates] incident and their new Troll guests. Things were getting better, but she could get enough for Doren, surely? However, the man indicated his plate.

“I have food! And I can pay! I just need…a kitchen? Cormeng’s has one, but it is not in good order. I tried cooking with the magical stove, but it hasn’t been maintained in at least a century. So…”

His cutlery and plates were immaculate. His breakfast? Gothica focused on that and saw an overdone egg and a raw Yellat. He’d added salt and pepper in the way of a complete amateur understanding these were seasonings and should go on food. Gothica stared at Doren’s food, which he hadn’t eaten much of. She picked up the Yellat, took a bite…put it down on the plate.

Doren didn’t object because it wasn’t exactly ruining the culinary appeal of his food for him.

“…You got other food?”

Silently, he got up and showed her bags of stacked Yellats. Grain piled up in a storeroom, enough for…Gothica eyed the stacks.

“Can I have this?”

She picked up some eggs in an entire storeroom enchanted with preservation, and Doren nodded.

“Don’t scuff the preservation runes. They’re old and need re-varnishing. What—”

She took some grain, hefted some Yellats onto her head, and waddled back through the door. Doren hesitated.

“Gothica, I could just pay for—”

He couldn’t leave Cormeng’s. Couldn’t walk out of the many exits of the emporium into other places. Cormeng himself couldn’t do that. He’d made his store to go all the places he couldn’t. To find exciting new guests to talk to. The way his store worked was that it went anywhere that qualified as a ‘town’ or larger.

Something to do with population. So when Doren tried to follow Gothica, he failed. He always did. He stepped out of the door after her, worried, hoping he wasn’t asking for too much, and the barrier that anchored Cormeng’s in a separate dimension stretched around him.

Like a bubble.

It physically clung to him, pulling him back, distorting the world slightly around the edges. He fought it; he could stand outside for about five seconds and see the world where his clients came and went from. If he wanted to. Normally, it hurt his heart, but—

“Gothica, I just need some f—”

——

Doren Issk walked out of a door in Goblinhome’s fortress, and a passing Goblin carrying a load of gears turned, stared at the Human emerging from what looked like a supply closet, and walked slam bang into a support pillar.

Steel gears showered to the floor. Other Goblins turned and saw Doren. He stared around. Goblins everywhere.

They were marching down a hallway divided by a red line branching left and right, moving down corridors organized with that military precision. Goblins—and a Troll who stopped scratching his belly as he saw Doren. They turned, open-mouthed, staring, as he backed up. A man encased in a bubble-wrap that pulled at him as Gothica whirled, eyes wide.

“What? How you—”

“I—”

Twooop. Doren was sucked back into the door, and it slammed closed as Gothica stared. All the Goblins eyed the door. There was a little sign in Goblin written above it.

Cormeng’s Emporium of Antiquities and Trinkets.

Perfect Goblin writing. They gazed at Gothica carrying a bunch of food. At the door.

Then all havoc broke loose.

——

It occurred to Doren to be afraid for his life. He was frantically trying to redraw one of his protection spells when the door opened, twenty minutes later, and Gothica edged back inside.

“Hey! I have food! Uh, you here, Doren? My, uh, Lilbrasi wants to talk to you too. Is all very normal and chill.”

“C-coming!”

He edged out of his rooms, palms sweating over another bag of prepared spell-reagents. But to his relief, there wasn’t an army of Goblins in his shop.

Well, there were a few Goblins. But it was just three plus Gothica.

One was a tall Goblin woman with a pointed hat, who was staring at the cheap gemstones. Another was a shorter Goblin wearing furred armor, who seemed important. The third? A yawning Goblin with a pair of swords on his hips.

Gothica had an omelette and fresh bread. She introduced the others.

“This, uh, Lilbrasi. And Redguy. And Prixall. All half-Elves from my…home.”

Oh, right, they were under illusions. They looked like half-Elves if Doren let Cormeng’s anti-illusion magics lapse. He smiled and waved.

“Er, hello. Welcome to Cormeng’s. I apologize for the mess. Gothica’s a good customer of mine.”

“Gothica. Good. Customer?”

The male Hobgoblin said the words like they were utterly alien when placed together. Gothica scowled and poked Redguy in the side.

“I am good! I pay! I have my Twilight Sanctum—”

“Shut it.”

He poked her back, hard. She bared her teeth, saw him raise a fist, and subsided. Doren huffed defensively on Gothica’s behalf, but quailed—this Redguy seemed very dangerous and fit. But the other Goblins eyed Doren’s reaction and turned to each other.

It was the [Witch], Prixall, who spoke.

“This shop…it’s very magical. But Gothica said it only had ‘weird junk’.”

Gothica avoided Doren’s glower as he explained what Cormeng’s was. Prixall’s eyes lit up—then she turned and poked Gothica.

“A pawnshop with access to other cities? We could get so much here!”

“It got no nails! Or other stuffs! Just old junks!”

Gothica protested! Prixall rolled her eyes.

“How can it even reach—? The magic makes no sense. This Cormeng. Was he a [Wizard]? [Enchanter]? [Mage]?”

She was frowning around, and Doren managed a weak reply. She was very impressive.

“Er, no, ma’am, he wasn’t any kind of spellcaster of those classes. He had none.”

“None?”

She had the opposite reaction most [Mages] did. When she heard about Cormeng, Prixall didn’t scoff or make fun of him like many [Mages] from Wistram did. She just paused and tapped her lips.

“Magic without levels. No wonder it does more than other spell schools. Anazurhe always said that the old magics had different rules. Lilbrasi…this may be important.”

The last Goblin had been assessing Doren and the shop. When she spoke, she sounded tired, a bit annoyed, but authoritative.

“Everything Gothica gets involved with is usually more important than she is. She learned too much from the inn. You two, go see if you want to buy anything. I’ll talk with Master Doren. Excuse me, sir. I am known as Lilbrasi.”

She held out a clawed hand, and he shook it gingerly. She was short for a Hob—the first he’d met. She stared at his hesitant smile, and Gothica began eating the omelette meant for Doren. But when she got a glower from both Lilbrasi and Doren, she abandoned it and scuttled away to show the other two Goblins what was coolest in the shop. Doren awkwardly took the plate.

“Is this for me? Thank you.”

“Of course. Gothica took more food than she needed. To appease me. If you need a cook, we can make you food. It’s just tricky because you found us.”

“I’m sorry about that. It was just that she kept complaining about the ‘trek’, so I opened up a shop where she was from. She didn’t tell you?”

“No. I had no idea someone could infiltrate…this would have been very handy to know. Especially a month ago. Is this how she escaped the Titan in…?”

One glower at Gothica’s back said that the young Goblin was in trouble, but since that seemed to be a permanent state of being with Gothica, Doren just savored the omelette. Then his face fell.

It had mushrooms in it. He hated mushrooms. But it was delicious, so he kept eating. Lilbrasi kept watching Doren’s face, then sighed.

“I know something about Gothica’s little…group here. And you haven’t done anything to harm us. Forgive me for my suspicions; you had plenty of time to cause trouble. It sounds like you are in trouble yourself. I would like to trust you, though you understand your shop disconcerts my people. But anyone willing to eat an omelette made by Goblins probably isn’t that dangerous.”

Doren jumped. However, Lilbrasi had seen through him in a moment. She eyed him sardonically as he stuttered.

“How did you know—?”

“You stared at my hand too long. Nor did you scream when you entered Goblinhome. So you knew Gothica was a Goblin. That idiot. She kept bragging about how no one knew her identity. Have you met Goblins before?”

“No. Just her. Well, that’s not true—there was one time when I opened up my shop and masked Goblins came in. Very upsetting, but they didn’t do much.”

“Heh. Anazurland.”

Lilbrasi grinned at that. She took a seat as Doren ate his omelet, and it occurred to him that she might have poisoned it. But he was hungry, and he’d already eaten the omelette, so he began chewing on the toast.

“Tell me, Shopkeeper Doren. Have you…ever met Erin Solstice?”

He paused, mid-bite of toast.

“I have, but how did you—?”

His answer was just a long sigh from the Goblin, who introduced herself as ‘Chieftain Rags’. But she didn’t seem entirely displeased. Just resigned.

——

It only occurred to Doren who he had met later. It took an embarrassing amount of time, really. Two whole days for him to put together ‘Chieftain Rags’ with all the drama around the High Passes and Pallass’ army on the television.

When he finally connected the dots, he started shaking and had to lie down for hours to recover. Which sort of established a few things.

Firstly—despite his best intentions, Doren wasn’t really the sort of long-term ally that Goblinhome wanted. The thought of being connected with such a famous and dangerous Goblin tribe had him sweating bullets. They’d hang him in the streets if anyone in the north knew, let alone the Drake cities!

To his relief, Chieftain Rags seemed to have taken Doren’s measure in the brief meeting they had. She, after a few punches to the top of Gothica’s head, assured him that the Goblins of Goblinhome wouldn’t do anything to his store so long as he only allowed Gothica and a few chosen Goblins in. They’d be happy to even make him food or trade with him—if he was willing to get goods for them.

After he’d settled his nerves, Doren made his first consequential decision in his life on the lam. He was not willing to buy supplies and goods for Goblinhome using Cormeng’s shop.

“What? Why not?”

The decision upset Gothica far more than Chieftain Rags or the others. She argued with Doren as some of the regular guests came in and out of Cormeng’s. He hissed back at her.

“Because, Gothica, that’s not how Cormeng’s works! I’m not getting in trouble with—with anyone! Plus, it doesn’t work like that!”

“If you get us supplies, we pay you for it. Is easy! You buy nails, tampons, wood planks, all things Goblins want—”

She glowered, but he stabbed a finger onto his counter.

“How?”

“Easy! You just is go out and—oh.”

She realized the problem, and Doren pointed at the Newspaper Exchange.

“I can’t leave Cormeng’s except in the place I came from, Gothica. And I can’t go back because I have a dozen [Mercenaries] waiting to jump me! The only other way is to ask customers to buy for me.”

That was way too much work, and it’d attract attention. The Newspaper Exchange was the most you could get a random passerby to commit to. Moreover…Doren just didn’t want to. He liked Gothica, but he wasn’t at home with wholesale support to a Goblin tribe who had fought Pallass’ army.

It was cowardly, perhaps, but that was Doren. Gothica frowned.

“…But you still want food?”

“Well, I can’t cook, and until I get Cormeng’s old kitchen up and running…yes? Food isn’t as hard. I can flag down a Runner sometimes, and I have a huge stockpile. Sorry.”

He expected her to throw a fit, but Gothica just sighed.

“Is okay. You don’t have to be Erin-but-bald. Chieftain Rags says she doesn’t expect you to be that brave for Goblins. Plus, you probably do die if someone finds out.”

That stung, but Doren let it go. The upshot was that he at least had breakfast courtesy of Gothica. But the rest…

——

Cormeng’s Emporium of Antiquities and Trinkets was undergoing a sea change. A crisis, really. Doren had managed to secure food for himself. Cooked food, really; he wouldn’t starve.

But he refused to open Cormeng’s in Ivolethe’s Landing or any of the old places it used to be open. Many, many cities in the north were where his family might visit or send [Mercenaries] to. The risk of them sending in [Bounty Hunters] was too great; he had to restrict access.

However, that meant his usual clientele were being erased. Doren could only keep the shop open in a few locations for Gothica’s club—the rest of his locations were all Drake cities. And they were annoying too.

The problem with Cormeng’s was that it was by definition an unlawful, random magical business. The exact kind of thing any Drake Watch hated. Doren paid no taxes. He had no permit. He had no passport.

It was customary for him to open Cormeng’s in a Drake city for about a week, three if he was feeling cheeky, then close it for several months. Any more than that and you got a Drake [Guard] poking their heads in or a patrol asking questions. If he was lucky, he could get them to leave and ask the Watch Captain what to do or pay a fine. Then Doren would instantly shift the door away and blacklist the city.

However, that meant Drake cities had always been, well, less appealing than northern cities who were more lax about magical shops and barely noticed. But with his fear of his family sending mercenaries, Doren began burning through Drake cities left and right.

That led to multiple problems as he confessed to his now-daily visitor, Gothica.

——

“I’m worried, Gothica. I’m running a deficit on the week’s earnings. I never run into the red. And—and I had to cancel two more Drake cities. I’ll run through my list! I can’t keep doing this!”

Gothica was not the best person to air your woes to. Her lack of sympathy was only equalled by her complete disinterest in anything economics-related. However, she’d been here long enough to tilt her head and scratch at her hair with genuine confusion.

“This shop magical though, right? How…how you lose money when you got no expenses? You not paying stupid family, right?”

Aside from feeding Doren, the shop seemed virtually self-sufficient to Gothica. He had no property tax, paid no nobles a fee for his business, and stuff like water and even the magic that ran the shop were free. However, the man wringing his hands over his ledgers pushed them at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gothica. Look!”

She obligingly stared at a bunch of red ink entries. Her face screwed up.

“Candelabra? You bought one?”

“It’s zircon green and onyx. Very odd; I thought the Noelictus candles would look good in them.”

It was a very ominous candelabra that Gothica instantly grabbed for the Twilight Sanctuary. She was approving, but then ran her eyes down the other entries.

“Furniture set, five books, eh…old smithing set? Why you buying all this junk? This is why you in the red?”

Doren gave Gothica an arch look.

“Of course! I’m still taking in goods. Selling them is harder.”

So he wasn’t actually ‘in the red’ if you counted goods accumulating in his store. Doren just needed more customers willing to come by and go through the hassle of moving a full dining set. People might well see the store and decide to sell something, but the purchase was a slower process—especially with heavier items.

Gothica pointed out, reasonably, that Doren could stop buying more junk, but he was reluctant to change his business model.

“The only thing that’s keeping us even moderately solvent are the Terandrian cities, and I can’t open Cormeng’s just to them!”

“Why not? Okay, today’s meal is risotto Eater Goat a la tomatoes. Is very soft tomatoes. Melts in mouth.”

Gothica opened up a little wooden box containing breakfast, lunch, and dinner, which had a very handsome risotto in it…which was missing about a bite-sized portion. Doren glared at Gothica, who licked her lips guiltily and avoided meeting his eyes.

She was assigned to give him his food that he paid for from Goblinhome. And apparently, making sure he wasn’t poisoned. Doren grumpily took his breakfast out of the box as he explained.

“There aren’t unlimited Drake cities, and Cormeng’s has been blacklisted in a number of them. Past incidents or the Watch realizing what we are—that already narrows the list. Other cities don’t like Humans; half the blacklist are cities where Humans aren’t welcome! So I can’t just rotate forever! Second, I can’t just go to Terandrian cities. I’d like to, but the magical cost is too high, and there is a limit!”

Gothica’s ears perked up.

“There is?”

“Cormeng’s is Izrilian-based, Gothica. It has a mana-pool which recharges daily. I don’t exceed the allowances. It’s just a bit of math. Here.”

He showed her the backrooms, and she stared at the little abacus of stones that he’d set up as well as a glowing streak of magicore encased in glass. She eyed it, the abacus…and then stared at Doren.

“Where the numbers?”

“You’re looking at them.”

Doren had a list of locations, and he’d pre-calculated the mana-cost of opening a door to any given city based on its geographical distance from Cormeng’s. He factored that into the abacus to estimate the mana-load of any city and set a limit of people who could enter per day. None of it was displayed in a handy numerical value, which Gothica pointed out. Doren just sighed.

“That’s Skill-stuff, Gothica. Cormeng’s magic doesn’t work like that. If you mess it up—and I have—it just means you drain the mana. You have to keep a tab on it manually.”

“Wow, that sucks. Why you not use Skills?”

“I don’t know. Cormeng didn’t, so I don’t! All of what he did was the hard way! Like his magic! You know darkness magic, don’t you? This is how I cast magic!”

He shook a pre-packaged pouch of eighteen ingredients at Gothica, and she eyed it. Then his spell circles.

“What? That so much work. All I gotta do is say [Darkness Arrow] and boom!”

She fired one off from her claw, and Doren ducked. He straightened and leaned on the counter.

“Yes. And I can’t cast any really strong magic. The most Cormeng’s magic can do is Tier 4…none of his descendants figured out better magic. You have to actually know what you’re doing to use his old enchantments. I’m just copying the ones that work if you set them up.”

“Ooh, what they do?”

“Well, one blasts you off your feet. Another fills the room with clouds that solidify. There’s one that makes you disappear—”

“…What? Those just normal spells?”

She was so dismissive that Doren grew defensive on behalf of his ancestor.

“Not just normal spells! The one that knocks you off your feet isn’t bad, and you just have to say two words and it activates. The clouds that solidify is a good spell! And the disappearing one makes you vanish for sixteen seconds!”

Gothica stared at Doren.

“…Sixteen?”

“Plenty of time to find somewhere to hide.”

“Doren. Doren. Prixall is a [Witch]. She can cast [Invisibility] so long she can have spicy-poo-death on side of mountain two hours and no one sees her. Everyone smells though and hears her. Is very funny actually—”

Doren deflated. It was always like this, comparing Cormeng’s magic against the levelled. He sighed.

“I know it’s not the best, but Cormeng did it all without levels. Surely that counts for something…? The reason his store’s around is because he built it without Skills. When he died, nothing broke. It’s why we can repair it. Well, some of my predecessors never figured out the basic maintenance spells, but it’s not the hardest. It just requires work. It’s all…it’s all I have, okay?”

Gothica was about to bully the man more, but she saw Doren gazing down at his hands. She hesitated, and in defiance of her [Goth] class, patted him on the elbow.

“Sixteen seconds not that bad. Plenty of time to pee. The, uh, the spells do anything else nice?”

Doren was maudlin now and shook his head.

“No, you’re right. They’re not good. The only benefit is that they work even with a levelless hack like me. Oh, and you can’t dispel them easily. They pretty much ignore regular [Dispel Magic], or so Cormeng claims. He has journals—some of the best entries are of him beating Wistram [Mages].”

His great ancestor had lived a colorful life that included dueling Wistram [Mages]. Among his greatest exploits was an adventure when he apparently raided a Wistram base—they had bases in his day—to save a friend despite a Tier 6 [Antimagic Field] effect. Doren showed Gothica the journal, and she looked appreciative.

“Ooh, how he casting magic even with no magic?”

“Apparently, it’s due to his magical style. Reagents. You can stop a spell from forming, but magic is still…magic. He carried his with him since he never had a real mana well. See?”

Doren had a bunch of reagents, the classic stuff. Gemstone dust, eye of newt—he felt bad for the poor things—and so on. All of it was expensive, but you put it in a pouch, and a spell drew from it. Spellcasting for someone without a mana pool.

Gothica found this all mildly interesting. As a [Goth], she had her own mana pool and aura, so she was quite capable of any number of spell-like effects. She didn’t quite get why for Doren, a magic-less Human with no actual training, casting magic was so significant.

Chieftain Rags did, and when she heard about Doren’s abilities, she threw Gothica out of a window—but she didn’t hear about Doren’s powers for quite some time. As for Doren, the magic he cast had long since lost great meaning since it was expensive, difficult, and to his mind, surpassed by the magic of levels.

Thus, his quandary.

“I can’t keep opening my shop in Terandria. I need another place. Do you know anywhere?”

“Uh…Liscor? Celum? Invrisil?”

“Doesn’t Liscor get attacked like every other week? And have…Antinium?”

Doren shuddered. Gothica shrugged.

“They is nice. What, you not like Antinium but you like evil Goblins?”

She had been very annoyed to learn Doren knew what she looked like. But he just gave her a serious look.

“You’re a good friend, Gothica. But I’ve never met an Antinium…I don’t know if I can handle it.”

Gothica grew so embarrassed at this she poked him hard and sidled off, muttering about stupid Humans. Nor did that fix Doren’s issue; he wasn’t willing to do Invrisil since his family would probably look for him there, and Cormeng’s generally relied on multiple cities to keep up its clientele.

——

Doren agonized over the issue as he watched sales lower over the next few days. He did get his first Antinium visitor to the shop and hid behind the counter, but the mystified Worker just entered, glanced around, asked if he sold pets, then left.

The problem with Liscor was…

Well, it was the problem with any city and the reason Cormeng’s needed to be in so many places at once.

He didn’t really sell things that were that important to people. Antinium had no budget for chairs, articles of clothing, or knick-knacks. The entire point of Cormeng’s was that it stocked novelties. Curios. Nothing critically important or it’d get [Rogues] coming in to swipe everything. It was a highly magical shop that sold mundane trinkets second-hand. People came in, bought what they wanted, and sold whatever he was willing to buy.

It didn’t occur to Doren to change the winning formula. It had fed and funded generations of his family before him. But he was conscious of the daily profit sheets going into the negatives day-after-day as he tried to establish Cormeng’s in the south and kept having to rotate away from the Watch who were asking too many questions. It wasn’t always easy to find the shop, but the determined could get there if the store was open in a city. The Watch had nothing but time for odd Humans in their city.

It got so bad that Doren was actually considering hiring a Street Runner to get him a copy of Drake law so he could apply for a Drake passport or commercial business license. He ordered Cormeng’s to open anywhere in Izril that qualified and just hoped to find a few Drake cities that were willing to let his store be in peace.

In truth, Doren knew he had a lot of gold to rely on in the coffers. But he had been trained to fear any week without running a net-profit.

Doren was in a weird push-pull. He was still too scared to open his shop in his regular haunts in the north.

Of course, he’d banned any [Bounty Hunters] or [Mercenaries] from entering Cormeng in the north. He could do that, but his late-night thoughts made him think that anyone smart in his family would just hire someone who wasn’t either class.

If he had to deal with himself, Doren would hire random people, have them enter his shop, and just grab him. He didn’t have that much magic, and once he was in fear of his life, they could force him out of his shop, keep him from re-entering, and that was that. Cormeng’s was no fortress; anyone with half a brain could figure out a way to get at him.

So the north was no good. And by contrast…

“That all for today, Shopkeeper Doren?”

A bored, but polite-looking man was finishing sweeping up around Doren’s shop. A [Cleaner], not a particularly high-level one. Just a middle-aged fellow like Doren. Hardly spry, but he had an attention to detail. Doren nodded to him.

“That’s all for today, Mister Frelcas.”

The [Cleaner] doffed his cap, put his broom in a closet, and walked off. He went back to his city and Doren reflected he was worth the pay…but the man didn’t talk about his life. He wasn’t interesting. He wasn’t a skeleton, for one thing, at least, no more than any person walking around with one inside them was.

Doren employed people these days. Just temporary workers. A [Laborer] or [Hauler] to move heavy items around. A [Cleaner]; he’d even hired a [Shop Assistant] to see if it got him out of minding the counter.

But it just wasn’t the same as Toren. His hires didn’t have any spark of originality to them. Doren had tried, lamely asking if they had suggestions, but they didn’t find him that interesting, or even his shop. They were here to collect pay and do the minimum he asked of them.

When they did find the shop interesting, sadly, it went in the other direction, and they began to ask how magical Cormeng’s was. Then they either started trying to poke around the backrooms, stole things, or tried to haggle up their hourly rate on the basis that a magical shop was more complex and they should be paid more.

He’d quickly grown tired of the chore of managing people, which he’d never learned, and gone mostly back to his old ways with the occasional help. But the old ways…Doren was restless. Unhappy, and complained to Gothica so much the [Goth] grumbled he was the negative one. He’d thought his life would change since running away from his old one, but it seemed he’d just brought it with him.

So that was Doren, still quietly miserable.

What might have happened next, he couldn’t have said. But that was when he gained his first new visitor from an unexpected place.

——

Doren Issk was sitting at his counter, trying to do the math on selling song crystals. If he bought a hundred, a huge investment, and sold at a 15% markup…

The trick would be getting out of his store and going to the Mage’s Guild. A giant risk. He had to leave it someday, he knew. But if those [Mercenaries] were there…another month. Another month, he wagered, and they’d have given up. Then he could flee to another city. Keep on the move and just…

His store was almost empty. Gothica’s club wasn’t meeting today, and she’d been called back to Goblinhome for ‘training’. Apparently, Chieftain Rags had her working quite a lot despite Gothica’s assertions that she was unpaid, unrespected, and ill-treated. She was apparently often assigned to combat groups or spellcasters by Rags personally.

It sounded to Doren like she was important. But Gothica claimed no one respected [Goths]. So the store was full of mostly disinterested Drakes whispering to each other about whether or not they were really in a magical store and a pair of Gnolls growling to each other softly; they had dyed fur and were eying the Drakes askance, wearing very little clothing.

Doren heard the door chime, and then the Drake stumbled into the store. He was filthy. Mud encrusted his boots, which were worn and wet. The same with his armor. Leather, actually mildewed and stinking of the same yellow-brown mud. Doren’s nose wrinkled up. The Drake gasped.

“What—what is—”

“Excuse me, wipe your boots, please!”

Doren called out and nodded to the enchanted doormat. The Drake turned his head around wildly. He stared at Doren as if he were a ghost, and Doren tensed.

Looks like he’s on drugs. He’s thin—smells, and he’s covered in muck and…bug bites? I’ve never seen swollen scales. Dead gods, his teeth!

When the Drake spoke, there was a bit of blood around clearly swollen gums.

“Wh-what is—?”

“Wipe your feet, please.”

Doren felt at his side, grasping one of his emergency spells. This one was just an ejection spell. Against anyone under Level 40, it worked unless they had a very specific dodge or countermeasure Skill. To his relief, the Drake did back up and slowly wipe his boots on the doormat.

…It barely did anything. Doren saw a few Drakes turn, and the Gnolls recoiled, sniffing the air. He hesitated as the muddy Drake just leaned against the doorframe.

“Wh—where am I?”

“Cormeng’s Emporium of Trinkets and Antiquities. A magical store that serves customers across Izril and parts of Terandria. Please note the rules, sir?”

Doren pointed, and the sign with the rules against violence, theft, and so on hung over his head. As well as the one about ‘you break it, you buy it’. The Drake just stared at him, bug-eyed, and Doren was worried. A few of his customers had noticed the newcomer and were hurrying towards the second door to get out.

“Are you…interested in anything today, sir? Jewelry? Furniture?”

If not please get out. Doren didn’t want to eject this Drake straight off, but he was clearly not in the market for anything. But the Drake just whispered.

“I…I…d’you have water?”

What a strange question. Water? Cormeng’s actually collected rainwater, and it had a well inside the store, so Doren could get plenty. He hesitated.

“I…could get you a glass, sir.”

“I’ll—I’ll—I have coins. I’ll pay for some. Please?”

He looked so thirsty that Doren hesitated, then slid off his chair and hurried into the back. He came out with a cup of water and hoped this wasn’t a ruse—but the Drake was just swaying on his feet. When he stared at the cup of water, he reached for it with a shaking claw, then hesitated.

“It’s good?”

“…Good? There’s no charge for water, sir. The cup would be extra.”

Doren tried a joke, but it didn’t land. The Drake, whose scales were a murky blue under the muck, Doren realized, was just eying the water.

“No, I mean, the water’s…not ill? Contaminated. Half the encampment’s feverish. Some idiot fouled the well, and the river-water’s not safe to drink. Salted. Damn stuff’s flowing up from the sea.”

What well? A river that was fed by seawater? Doren had never heard the like. He frowned, but assured the Drake that this was rainwater, and Cormeng’s had purification spells on it. When the Drake did take a hesitant taste, his forked tongue flicking over the cup, he paused, then began guzzling it.

“Ancestors. It tastes so sweet.”

Sweet? Another word Doren didn’t associate with water. But now he was fascinated, like a man seeing a terrible accident. The Drake drank the water, and without a word, Doren got him a pitcher. It was just water—but after two gulps, the Drake clutched at his mouth, then vomited onto the floor.

“Oh, dead gods!”

That got rid of a lot of customers. Doren groaned as he found a cleaning wand. The Drake was apologizing, gasping as he fell over.

“I’m sorry. Sorry…”

“It’s…fine.”

It wasn’t, but the more Doren regarded the Drake, the more he realized this fellow wasn’t actually on drugs but actually desperate. He kept gulping water and almost vomited again.

“I don’t—I don’t—just let me sit here, please? I’ve got a dagger here. Good steel. I’ll let you have it.”

A dagger for him to sit on the floor? Doren cast around, then found one of the more rickety chairs. He ushered the Drake towards it, to get him out of the entryway if nothing else.

“Take a seat here. More water? Er, to wash with?”

The Drake was still filthy and covered in mud. He gave Doren a blank look, then laughed hoarsely.

“Sorry. I’ve been hunting for…d’you have food? I’d sell what I have for that. Not that I…”

He felt at his side and actually dragged out a few coins. A brief polish revealed they were silver. Doren eyed them, then found more water to wash with, and…a Yellat.

The Yellat was slightly spiteful. He didn’t want to make this Drake overly welcome, but when he saw it, the Drake abandoned the water cup, grabbed it, and began trying to eat the raw Yellat, skin and all, without washing it.

“Hold on, hold on!”

Horrified, Doren got the Drake a knife to peel it with, but the Drake just peeled the Yellat, ate the skin, and then kept eating. Water and Yellat…it was now that Doren began to catch on just how odd this was.

“Excuse me, er, Mister…?”

“Hm?”

“Your name?”

“Thorssin. I’m—I’m Thorssin. I was with The First Venturers—now I’m with Alpha Expedition Tritare. No—no, the Draconis Collective? Forget which one we’re supposed to be. This isn’t any part of the encampment, is it?”

He still didn’t seem to believe Cormeng’s was real or get it. Doren spoke slowly.

“No, you’re in a different place. What’s the…encampment? A town?”

“Town? Hah! Hahaha—”

Thorssin began laughing so hysterically it put Doren’s hair up. Then he calmed down and kept gnawing at the Yellat.

“This is a dream, but it’s a good one. I must be lying in the muckfields. The encampment, stranger, is where dreams end. ‘Swhere the [Merchants] and [Traders] and every bastard runs their wagons aground. Six feet deep in the muck, never to move again. They think it’s just grassland until they drive up. Then the water rises, and their wheels mire, and they’re damned. Like the rest of us. Or they find us because there’s nowhere else in this forsaken hell.”

He spoke with a haunted look in his eyes. Doren spoke even slower.

“…Where? How many? It has to be at least…six thousand people. That’s the smallest place Cormeng’s can appear.”

The Drake focused on him, and he rasped again.

“Six thousand? I think there’s that many. Though there’s more dying than living at times, it feels. The encampment’s just a sinking village of huts and—and whatever we can build on the marshy land. It’ll all sink in time. Too many mouths to feed and nowhere to go but down.”

“Why don’t you leave, then?”

Doren was hypnotized now. So were the two Gnolls and a few Drakes. Thorssin laughed like it was a joke. He was holding his stomach now, staring down at it as if not believing there was a Yellat inside it, and water.

“Why? Because it’s too deep to slog through. Miles, and the only freshwater’s in what we can boil from the river. Better to wait for another caravan and hope someone’s got enough food or Skills. And if we’re hungry, there’ll be enough bodies. I’ve tried three times to get out—and each time I ran across other groups who set out. Some pulled down into the mud. The monsters are hunting us, and even the walking lampreys are draining us dry. Drop by drop. This is a dream. I’m dying, but it’s a lovely dream. I can’t stay asleep, though. They’re counting on me. I have to wake up.”

He began slapping himself. A claw striking the side of his head as his leather helmet, so molded with rain and weather it looked like part of him, shook. Harder and harder until Doren cried out.

“Stop, stop! This isn’t a dream! You’re here! You’re in Cormeng’s! Where are you?”

Then Thorssin gazed up, and his eyes filled with a terrible hope. A terror this was a dream, but hope—he was the realest, most alive being that Doren had ever met. Between life and death. In his way, just like Toren. Grasping at straws.

“The New Lands, stranger. We’re in the New Lands. Tell me. Are you salvation or just a hallucination?”

Doren stood there, dumbstruck, as he realized how far his shop had reached. How far…into a place even Cormeng had not expected. But he had made his shop well. Doren whispered.

“I’m neither. I’m just Doren.”

The Drake blinked up at the 52 year-old Human man without classes or levels. He smiled.

“Ancestors. You could have told me you were a [Hero] from the Dragon Wars and I’d believe you.”

He closed his eyes and passed out. Just like that, as if someone had shut him off. Doren had to check the Drake’s mouth to realize he was still breathing.

Then—

Then Doren found himself in an adventure he hadn’t asked for, but one only he, Doren Issk, could participate in. He had dreamed of it, but it had come to him when he least expected it.

The New Lands.

——

A Drake explorer of the New Lands was passed out in Cormeng’s, right in front of Doren, and he was panicking.

Because this was something Important, and such things did not happen to him. All his imaginations, daydreams about being the hero of the hour turned to panic because…well, for one thing, he was pretty sure this wasn’t supposed to happen at all.

Thorssin was passed out in a rocking chair, and the remaining guests in his store were murmuring, asking questions, as Doren fled to the backrooms. Even Toren and Maviola hadn’t really ever worked there. Neither one needed sleep, so their rooms had mostly been to store personal items. And there were rooms that Doren had forbade even his best and only employees from entering.

Most of Cormeng’s inner rooms were normal. A little break room with handy items like the spells, spare coins, a workbench to fix up items, magnifying glasses, other tools to test the purity of metals, gems, and so on.

The kitchens, mostly out-of-service due to the old enchantments having not been upkept, where Doren stored any non-perishable food items in the cupboards—because they weren’t enchanted by Runes of Preservation—

The Well Room, where water was stored in a vast, well, literal well. Hugely annoying. You had to test it constantly for moss, purify it, and yes, it was pretty when the magic swirled around the inside, but you had to peer over the edge of the well to see it flow, and his back hurt too much to bother…

Cormeng’s old Map and Trophy room, which had a splendid map of his voyages across the world and all his old journals. It should have been posh, the best of all such rooms, filled with curios from around the world and fine furniture.

Even the carpets were missing, torn up and sold. Doren’s predecessors had put nice furniture inside, but the floorboards were bare, the only images left were a few sketches that Cormeng had made. Few images of the man himself; the magical ones had been sold because they could be disenchanted.

Store rooms, which did have Runes of Preservation on them. Magic that Doren paid for as opposed to Cormeng’s brand of spellcasting which didn’t play well with [Mage] magic at all.

Oh, and the last room, the Tuning Room, which he stumbled into in a panic. No one could enter here but Cormeng’s successor. Strange, wavey-carvings around the doorframe would repel anyone from even trying. It seemed silly as a deterrent until the room threw you backwards. Out of the shop, if you pushed your luck.

A Level 40 [Warrior] had once tried to enter the Tuning Room and been thrown a thousand feet. An [Archmage] of Wistram had tried Cormeng’s, and something nasty had happened. There was still a huge mark on the floorboards, shiny and discolored.

This was the most terrifying room in the shop to Doren because it was where all of Cormeng’s magical enchantments were bound. All the…logic of the shop. The way it functioned, the safety spells, the magic that let it store mana and distributed it to spells—they were bound up in here. You could mess up the rules of Cormeng’s, and if you were lucky, you’d repair it. But there were entire functions lost to time because a predecessor had fiddled and broke it all forever.

But he had to look, so Doren walked towards the door and saw the lines moving like waves around him. Slower and slower, he walked despite feeling like he was running, and the waves shifted and rustled around him, passing by him, each line like a curtain he had to push past despite just being carved into the solid, old oak. They glowed, a faint green color like fresh grass, so innocent, not a scary color at all…

Then he entered into Cormeng’s Tuning Room and saw the crystals floating in the tubes of liquid, each one casting a faint, mostly blue glow as the brass contraption huffed and puffed and spat a few sparks from broken tubules. Doren checked the ‘patch’, which was a bit of Yellatskin wrapped around one of the broken tubes. Then stared at the others.

“Location. Location…it has to be wrong.”

Cormeng’s Tuning Room was nothing like what most [Enchanters] knew. The few who’d ever seen images of the inside or had it described to them by Doren got mad, because it made no sense to them. Where were the runes? The careful spell-sigils that linked to each other with gemstone conduits?

Crystals were acceptable, very magic—but these weren’t pure gemstones, just pieces of quartzite or minerals made up of multiple stones! And why put them in whatever liquid was inside?

Well, Cormeng would have said the liquid was just a preservative. The stones? The carved symbols were his own ‘words’, a language he’d made up, and the huge brass machine was what read them and turned it all into magic. Only, speaking any kind of magic was so hard he couldn’t do it by something as simple as a piece of paper or wood punched with holes—he’d tried all that. He had to write magic in three dimensions, sometimes four, and so the Tuning Room looked like this.

Doren’s trembling fingertips came to a tube clearly marked ‘Disjointment’. He checked it for cracks, telltale liquid leaking. The stone inside appeared good.

No problems? He then checked ‘Assessment’ and two sub-tubes marked ‘Numbers’ and ‘Criteria’, respectively.

Nothing. 

“But it has to be wrong.”

None of the tubes seemed to have malfunctioned, and Doren did check weekly. He stumbled around, studying the others. Again, each one was labeled as Cormeng had understood it, so you could only grasp how the room worked by studying his journals. Doren had needed to do the lightest of repairs or adjustments, and that had always been nerve-wracking and taken him over a decade to figure out—but he was almost sure nothing had shifted.

The broken tubes seemed…stable too. The Yellatskin wrap kept raw magic from shooting out and damaging anything else. Doren checked it, then replaced the wrap on two tubes just to be sure.

‘Automation’, ‘Telekinesis’, ‘Growth’, and two tubes so badly broken even their nameplates were gone had all been destroyed. Some of the real power of Cormeng’s had been in those. In the glory days, you could make the rooms move around at will, float items onto shelves, and there had been a greenhouse. What had happened to it?

Greed. Overloading the tubes—Cormeng’s wasn’t like regular enchantments. Some idiot had tried to grow Sage’s Grass in the magical greenhouse. They’d found out just how much Cormeng’s Magical Emporium of Antiquities and Trinkets could do. A lot—but not hold off a pack of Adult Manavores.

No time to admire the Tuning Room. Doren finally came to a standstill, huffing and puffing.

“Nothing here is broken. But…it’s still impossible!”

Out of the Tuning Room he went, to the old Trophy and Map room. If the spells that made Cormeng’s appear in any suitable town-like place weren’t busted, then…

——

The trick to Cormeng’s was that it only showed up places he had personally been. He’d made a kind of map, a trail that the store could move along. Anywhere he had ever been…but Doren was sure that Cormeng had never been to the New Lands.

Helpfully, Cormeng had annotated his personal world map with lines showing his adventures. Some had been continent-spanning escapades, others short jaunts. Here, Doren found the answer.

“Oh? Oh—here it is.”

He saw lines radiating out from what would have been Izril’s western coast before the New Lands formed. Sea voyages—and not just to Wistram or to Baleros or Chandrar or Terandria, either. There were islands circled, and Doren read.

“Sea voyage to the ruins of the old Tower-Forts of Issl-ven. Journal Entry #4522. Pirate pursuit after raid. Journal Entry #2145. Does that count?”

The lines crisscrossed right over where the New Lands currently were, if Doren’s vague understanding of the new maps was right. Based on this…and if a sea voyage counted, Cormeng’s was actually able to appear in quite a lot of the New Lands! Not everywhere, but Doren had never considered…

“It might even go as far as that Drowned City that rose out of the sea. M-maybe? I’ve only kept Cormeng’s to the towns and cities that he knew. But if this is right…”

He had an answer, of sorts. It was the kind of thing that made no sense to regular [Enchanters]. Cormeng just sailing over the water let his store appear there hundreds of years later?

Yes, because he’d taken his magic there and made the path. That only left the implications of what this meant and Doren’s guest who might well die of dehydration, hunger, or something else. Reminded of this, Doren rushed back into the shop proper.

He didn’t know what to do for—he didn’t even know what was wrong with Thorssin, aside from clear hunger and thirst. But here he was saved purely by luck.

The two Gnolls with the dyed fur were inspecting Thorssin, and they had pulled off some of his armor and cleaned him up when Doren returned with more water in a pitcher and food. One glanced up.

“Excuse me, [Shopkeeper], but do you have a towel, perchance? This Drake, he is not well at all, no. He smells of wellplague, and there’s leeches on him.”

“Leeches?”

The other Gnoll was stabbing the black suckers before gently prising them off the Drake’s scales. They were under his armor, and the Gnoll began washing the scales with more water—the floorboards were already filthy, and Doren grabbed a mop.

“Marshy terrain. Did I hear him right, Loshi? I had no notion the New Lands had such a spot—”

“Not one we have heard from our kin, but without magic, who can say? Chieftain Feshi would know more, but I worry he’s caught more than just wellplague. Gaarh Marsh would be one to ask. The [Shamans] or Theikha herself. But if we leave, can we come back?”

It occurred to Doren that his Gnollish guests were from an interesting place themselves. The male Gnoll stomped on a leech and grunted.

“Shopkeeper, excuse me, again. I am Svrei of the Weatherfur tribe. If I leave this shop, can I return? I understand it is magic, but this Drake needs more help than we can render alone. Can I bring someone with me? A [Healer]?”

“I, uh, yes! Yes, Cormeng’s can be found. It’s not easy, but it’ll be in the same area so long as I don’t blacklist your spot. I can turn off the random chance…”

That wasn’t a Tuning Room mechanism, it just took a few dials in the break room. The Gnoll blinked at Doren.

“Then I shall leave and come back at once. The store will be where I leave it?”

“Yes—just let me adjust—where are you from?”

The two Gnolls glanced at each other, and Loshi stopped removing the Drake’s armor to bare her teeth in a grin.

“The Meeting of Tribes, yes? It was a surprise to walk into a tent and come here.”

The Meeting of Tribes? But again, if there were over six thousand people who were camped in some kind of permanent way…or even had settled for, what, twenty days? Doren was gobsmacked. He saw Svrei hurry out of the shop, then turned to Loshi.

“I’m, ah, thank you for—what’s wrong with him? Should I get food? I have lunch and dinner he could eat…”

Loshi kept sniffing the Drake, wrinkling her nose up. She spoke, far more level-headed than he.

“Food is surely welcome when he wakes, but my priority is to make sure he has nothing else on him. We can wash him, but let a [Healer] or [Shaman] advise on if he needs food, yes? Mostly, one should have soup or simpler foods. Wellplague is nasty. We think he has that; it is more of a Drake thing in rural settlements, though Gnolls have also suffered it. Polluted wells. He is defecating, losing water, feverish.”

“And covered in mud and leeches. From—from a swamp. In the New Lands?”

Another sniff grimace.

“Hrr. Yes, some of it is mud. He smells of blood—not his own. Hunting is my guess, but my nose is only average. This armor is filthy; him being out of it will be a relief. Is there a place to bathe? He will want to, even if we clean his scales.”

A dedicated bathroom was one of those things that no longer existed in Cormeng’s; the old master bedroom and bathtub were long gone. However, the antiques store had bathtubs. Six. Doren rolled a circular washbasin over and helped pick the chair up and deposit the unconscious Drake in it, so the muck didn’t just spill onto the floor.

Amazingly, the Drake didn’t wake up once despite the manhandling. Doren had never seen someone in such bad shape, and it seemed to surprise even Loshi how unwell he was.

For instance, his boots needed cutting off. They might have been worth saving…but for how waterlogged the leather was. The stitching had given way, so water and mud had gotten in and essentially formed a seal.

When the boots did come off, it was clear they wouldn’t fit Thorssin anymore. Same with his armor. The gambeson was loose on him, merely anchored with sludge. He was thin. And there were more leeches on his chest, armpits—

At some point, Doren’s uncomfortability with touching another man’s body or nudity in general became background noise. He was plucking leeches off the scales, exclaiming over the chipped claws, not-quite-healed scars, some of which were ugly and red, when reinforcements arrived.

Svrei returned with eleven Gnolls, half of whom had magical auras. Doren stepped back as a Gnoll took one look at Thorssin and growled.

“His Ancestors! That’s wellplague. Get me a Draught of Restored Insides from Gaarh Marsh’s stocks. Ask for Shaman Toish if you need help. [Pest Purge]!”

He placed a paw on his chest, and a patch of pale fur in the shape of a pawprint lit up. The [Shaman] pulled the magic out of his chest, into his paw. Then he formed it into a spell, touched Thorssin’s chest, and every leech still on the Drake dropped off.

“Ah, there we are. I took him out of his armor since it looked like it was chafing his scales off, [Shamans], [Healers], but I didn’t know if I should try to get water in him…”

Loshi sat back on her heels. The other Gnolls took over with brisk efficiency.

“[Check Status]. He’s in need of all these things, but he’s not critical. Amazingly.”

“Not critical, you say, Healer? Drakes don’t break claws like this unless they’re malnourished. The smell—”

Svrei added as he hovered around.

“Bleeding gums too. He looked like his teeth were loose, maybe?”

“Ah, lack of fruits and vegetables, then. He might lose teeth, but we shall take things as they come. Shaman Theikha will want to see this once we are sure all is safe. Hm, someone have a mash made up, the kind you feed infants. Wild Wastes would have the richest milk from their cows.”

They were sending the younger Gnolls out, and Doren hid behind his counter when it became clear he was no longer needed. That was not to say he went unnoticed. The Gnolls had tons of questions for him. One of the [Shamans] not crowding around turned to him, an old Gnoll. Well, old meant Doren’s age—he sometimes liked to think he was a decade younger.

“This shop. I have heard of Cormeng’s.”

“You have? Really?”

“It is one of those urban rumors one is told to look for when in Drake cities. I never thought it might come to Gnoll tribes! Tell me, please, how did someone from the New Lands appear here?”

Doren had to explain the particulars of Cormeng’s shop and some of the rules. More Gnolls kept coming in, and he saw the few other visitors, mostly Drakes, either hurrying out or utterly shocked by the scene inside. One actually edged out, calling for the Watch, and another asked if this Drake was in trouble—Doren turned off most Drake cities to avoid complications.

By this point, Thorssin was coming around again, and more important people had arrived. Doren could tell. The moment the [Shaman] walked in, he saw her heart beating in the very air around her, and magic hung around Shaman Theikha like a wave that waited to break. But she didn’t speak until he’d finished talking, nodding at his explanation.

“This shop is quite powerful. I always thought it could be more, but it was content and the owner content to let it be a novelty. I hope you understand the risks of importance, Shopkeeper Doren. But you have likely helped save this Drake’s life today. Anything that comes after is a choice for you to make. Hello, I am Shaman Theikha of Gaarh Marsh.”

“Shopkeeper Doren of Cormeng’s Emporium of Antiquities and Trinkets. You’ve been here before?”

He felt sure he’d have recognized her if she’d come in, but Theikha just grinned.

“As a young [Shaman], I found my way here. It was the owner before you, though.”

Before me? It must have been Aunt Hildred. Theikha appeared far younger than that. She smiled before turning her attention to Thorssin.

“What’s going on? Get off me! I’m not dead. Give me back my things!”

“[Calm]. You’re safe, friend. We’re just trying to help you.”

One of the Gnolls cast a spell. [Mage] magic—it generated from their mana circuits, glowing lines on their body, and came from the ambient mana in the store. Unlike shamanic magic, which looked like it was drawn from just inside them or the glowing lines of force that connected a tribe together—Doren didn’t get many [Shamans] in his shop, so he was fascinated by the distinctions.

…The spell didn’t work. Thorssin slackened a bit, then began to struggle again.

“I’m no mark! I’m no mark; give me back—!”

Theikha sighed and pushed aside the spellcaster.

“Sometimes, magic is not the solution, yes? Thorssin, we are not stealing from you. You are in a magical shop. Here!”

She reached over, plucked a bowl of gruel from an apprentice’s hands, and shoved it into his lap. He stopped, grabbed the bowl, and began to eat. No utensils—just put his face in the bowl and ate, visibly clinging to it as if afraid she’d yank it back.

That bought time for the Gnolls to explain what was going on. Thorssin calmed down, but he was still blinking.

“Meeting of Tribes? This shop…that’s impossible. It’s like that door in Liscor.”

“Like it, but more powerful, and less. We all exit in the locations we came from. In that sense, it is not as powerful as true teleportation.”

Doren nodded, relieved that Theikha got it. It wasn’t like teleportation at all. More like entering a subdimension with movable tunnels. Cormeng’s stayed constant; the openings just shifted. Teleportation from one spot to another was far, far more mana-intensive, and Cormeng’s couldn’t support that. He had no idea how the door in Liscor did anything.

“So I’m still in the mudflats. I’m not dreaming.”

That was what Thorssin rasped after he’d calmed down. He stared down at his body, nude save for a towel, and then up at Doren.

“I’m…thank you. I can’t pay for this. My armor and weapons are worth…”

They’d tossed his armor, and his weapons were a bunch of rusted steel that Doren wouldn’t have bought for coppers. Theikha nodded down to him.

“Information will do, of what you are suffering from, of this place you reside in, the New Lands, Thorssin. But that is only if we must have a price. We are both travellers of the wilds. To not help another in distress when we have the capacity is a poor thing. We Gnolls have lost much, but we are not that poor, yes?”

When she smiled, she lifted Doren and Thorssin’s hearts, and the Drake sagged.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you. But I’m still there, then?”

He passed a claw over his face, staring at the broken clawtips. When Doren nodded, Thorssin licked his lips.

“Can I…get more of that porridge? And I’ll pay for any food you have. Can I take out a loan? My city’s Goisedall. My father’s…my fiancée’s family—we should have been back by now.”

He began to shake again and glanced around as the Gnolls leaned forwards. Doren felt that chill running up and down his body, like when he’d met that terrifying woman who’d placed something for Erin Solstice in his shop.

“It’s a nightmare. The New Lands is a trap. We’re all dying or starving there.”

Shaman Theikha gazed down at him as he shivered, and she motioned for towels, food, clothing as more important Gnolls were sent for. Doren leaned over his counter, wide-eyed.

Then the door opened, and Gothica walked in.

“Hey, Doren, you got any fancy toilet paper? Rags wants—”

She stopped. Every Gnoll in the room turned, sniffed the air, and stared at her hard. Shaman Theikha’s brows rose as she stared straight through whatever illusion Gothica had on her. She glanced at Doren.

“Hrm. Important indeed.”

——

Chieftain Rags entered Cormeng’s Emporium and found Chieftain Feshi, Chieftain Eska, Shaman Theikha, and a dozen other Honored Gnolls inside. Honored Berr grinned as Redscar instantly put a hand on his sword hilt.

The air tensed…and Rags’ eyes flickered before she held up a hand.

“I’m not here.”

Berr eyed her and raised a paw to poke. Rags slapped it down. She addressed Theikha, who grinned and nodded.

“Clearly so, stranger. Just as we are not all here, for this would be too important, politically, to deal with. Perhaps we will be here—”

She glanced at Doren.

“—but today is a daydream I had after eating with the others in private. Is that not so, Chieftain Eska?”

“I’d rather dream of more attractive Gnolls. Yow! Yes, yes, I’m dreaming. Everyone, behave. Anyone got something to eat?”

Rather swiftly, the Gnolls and Goblins nodded at each other and turned their attention to their mysterious guest. Doren just stared at Gothica, who edged over, holding her side.

“They poked me so hard my liver exploded, Doren! It’s not my fault! Who that guy?”

“Someone from the New Lands.”

Gothica and Doren whispered to each other as the more important people took charge and did important-people things. Which was good, really. It meant he got to share dinner with Gothica and watch as Thorssin recounted all the important bits without Doren doing anything.

“We don’t call it anything. The Mudhole. Rhir’s Second Hell. One of the [Merchants] tried to give it a name until he realized it was sinking. It’s this muddy…plains. Not the yellow grasslands. You follow one of the rivers, and at first the ground just sinks a bit. But the river’s got water, so you don’t think to turn back or go north; the grasslands don’t have enough game.”

“Not enough? But if they are Kishkeria’s magical grasses…”

A Gnoll protested, and Theikha hmmed.

“If this is the first group who went to the New Lands, I think they only ran into the animals changed by her magic. Or who came from the sea. In time, I expect Corusdeer will thrive there. The herds are already moving. But at the moment, unless you have grazing animals…”

Thorssin coughed. He was drinking more water and seemed…better. But still thin.

“The horses love it. But there’s only big predator-animals we saw. Two-headed monsters. Southwards is even wetter. A full swamp. The river has fish. Not always, but—but we thought to follow it. That’s how every idiot falls for it. Doesn’t matter if you have a scout. It’s solid enough until it rains.”

“Ah. Then the water rises, and the entire area turns into floodplains. Real floodplains.”

Chieftain Rags muttered. She was familiar with this kind of geography, and Thorssin shivered.

“Once your wheels get mired in the mud, you can’t dig ‘em out. If it stops raining and it dried up for two days, you’d be able to free it and go. But by the time two days have passed, the wheels are below ground level. Then you’re trapped. It doesn’t sink much faster after that, but everything still sinks. New caravans, they have to chop wood off their wagons, slog to the encampment with what they can carry.”

“Why not ride back the way you’ve come? I understand how your group got stuck there if it was one of the first, but surely if a new group appears, they’d just cut their losses and go.”

One of the Gnolls wanted to know. Thorssin paused.

“…Some do. Most don’t want to give up everything. And the horses can’t move in the mud; they’ll break their legs.”

“Why not go on foot, slow as it is?”

“With just an armload of goods?”

“Armload? What about your bags of…”

Thorssin started choking with laughter, and Berr muttered.

“No magic.”

It was a reminder to everyone listening how different the New Lands were. Doren couldn’t imagine it. No magic? But Thorssin had described the other hazards of the New Lands. This section, though…

“We…we tell ‘em to come here. Some leave. The smart ones do. But the rest come, and if they leave—the thing is there’s so many and—and—”

He couldn’t meet their eyes. Theikha’s voice was gentle, but implacable.

“And perhaps it is best if they come, because the food sustains everyone for another day, a week. But it adds more mouths to feed. So the cycle continues.”

This time both Gothica and Doren shivered, and Thorssin couldn’t meet Theikha’s eyes.

“We try to go. But it’s so damn far, and there’s things in the mud. Tentacles that drag you under. Those awful leeches…giant lizards with teeth that hide in the muck. Even the Landsharks won’t enter it. The encampment’s sinking, but there is some wood-stuff. Giant reeds—it’ll float, and you can catch frogs, even dragonflies and fish now and then.”

Just enough to get by. Not enough to really survive. Between making sure their part of the encampment wasn’t sinking and trying to forage enough, organizing a big push out of the mudflats was nigh impossible.

“That’s before someone tries to steal what you have, hrr. Your group—it must need to leave a number to guard the vulnerable, yes? Is there one group stronger than the others?”

Berr was leaning against a wall, face uncharacteristically dark and grim. The Goblins tilted their heads, confused, but this was something the Gnolls knew. Thorssin glanced at him.

“Yeah. There’s a big group of Drakes from Manus charging protection. They leave us alone because we’re Drakes, but…lots of groups stick with the caravan they were with, but if their leader dies or they split up, they shift around. It’s bad. We haven’t eaten anyone. Yet.”

The way he said it so casually made everyone stop, except for the Goblins. They were glancing at each other, and Rags was grimacing at Taganchiel. Theikha nodded.

“Your situation, Thorssin, is dire. We shall communicate our understanding of where this is to our tribes and travellers. It may be that a prepared group can break into the mudflats and help extricate survivors. I cannot make promises, to my shame, but what I can give you is provisions, enough to last your group for a while. Only what you can carry—dried goods. Armor, and weapons, likewise.”

She nodded at Eska, and the Chieftain of Longstalker’s Fang pulled a face.

“Unenchanted gear for swampwork. Gaarh Marsh and my tribe will piece together an outfit for you. Something that will keep the leeches and mud out—for a time. Same for weapons. You’re better served by a bone weapon, not steel.”

“Steel rusts in an instant. I’ll take anything. Thank you. I…I’ll repay this, I’ll tell everyone about your generosity.”

Thorssin was sagging with relief, with hope. He drank more, then hesitated.

“But if—I thought I was losing my mind when I came in here. It looked like just another ramshackle hut. I—I was going in to—”

He fell silent, and Redscar muttered.

“Loot?”

He got nudges from everyone around him, but Thorssin just whispered.

“Yes.”

Then he spoke more rapidly, and now his eyes turned to the man who was surprised when everyone regarded him.

Doren.

“My group’s thirty-some. They’re all from Goisedall. We were adventurers, we—my fiancée’s out there. Rikka. She’s almost as bad as—they’ll think I’m hurt or worse. But if I could bring them here, get some water, or just be out of the mud? Sleep for a second? We’d pay you back, we’d…”

He was begging Doren, and the shopkeeper was about to nod when Theikha made a motion. She drew a paw across her throat, and his chin stopped. He opened his mouth, and now the Great Shaman of the Meeting of Tribes spoke in a voice that was not pitiless, but just…aware.

“Two things will happen when your group learns of this, Thorssin, Shopkeeper Doren. The first is that they will beg to enter Cormeng’s and be reluctant to ever leave. Why would they? Yet they cannot leave by any door but the one they came from. It is feasible they could be fed, armed, and helped to survive the trek out of the mudflats. It is not feasible for six thousand or more to be provisioned thusly.”

Thorssin froze. He began to speak.

“We’re dying. We just need—”

“I am aware. But I tell you in advance, Thorssin of Goisedall: the Gnolls of the Meeting of Tribes cannot provide such assurances. We cannot arm, feed, and heal so many. It is not just a matter of cost. It is Shopkeeper Doren’s establishment. And while he may think to do what is right and good…the second thing that will occur is that the moment others learn of this place, they will flood in. What they cannot gain from goodwill, they will take. Your life will rapidly be under threat, Shopkeeper Doren. Desperate people will see this place as salvation and kill to remain here or take what can be taken.”

It was such a shocking thing to hear after seeing how helpful and kind the Gnolls had been. Doren was going to protest that surely…before he thought about six thousand Thorssins. He had sometimes had desperate people enter the shop. [Beggars] who realized there was a haven here. People who wanted to leave their city and wanted the store to let them out somewhere else.

He’d been robbed at knifepoint. He thought about how Thorssin had entered, covered in muck, desperate. He hesitated—and Theikha’s eyes were kind. But again, he got the impression she was speaking for his benefit more than Thorssin’s.

“There is also the fact that Cormeng’s ability to go to the New Lands, let alone to the Meeting of Tribes, is significant. The fact that it can connect two people from as far as Zeres to Pheislant, even for a moment, means it is a vessel of trade. Or just sharing information. I understand why it was done.”

She nodded at the Newspaper Exchange board, then turned back to Doren, and he saw Rags glancing at Gothica. Chieftain Feshi was peering at the gossip corner, and more powerful and high-level individuals than he’d ever seen in his life were giving him the same regard. Sharpness, like being weighed on a razor’s edge.

“You may wish to consider how Cormeng’s operates. I will not tell you it is wrong, but I will tell you it is dangerous. That is all. If you would like more of my thoughts, please ask.”

Shaman Theikha concluded. Chieftain Rags stretched out her back and nodded as well.

“This is what I thought you got with Gothica and not wanting to supply us. This is more dangerous and less profitable. Don’t be an Erin. Look at Liscor and see how her life changed. The [Goths] are bad enough.”

“Hey, up your shits.”

Rags turned to Thorssin, and the Drake’s eyes were locked on Doren, pleading. But the Chieftain just pointed around.

“I’d love to have a conversation for real with these people—if they’d be interested.”

“Seems risky.”

Chieftain Eska grunted bluntly, and Berr grinned.

“I’d do it, but more than once would make it risky enough for me to listen to my Chieftain if he says no. Regularly and we’d have to post a guard. Not it!”

He touched his nose, and Feshi muttered.

“If we even got the other Chieftains to agree—well, it’d be interesting if we had dedicated free trade partners, but we’d have to pare this location down to only a few permanent locations, no alterations.”

“Excuse me? They’re Goblins. What are we—”

“Shut up, Orelighn.”

The implications of what they were saying hit Doren, and he sat there behind his counter. Theikha smiled a touch guiltily at him and began to shoo some Gnolls towards the door.

“This is a conversation for tomorrow. One day is the least Thorssin needs. I suggest he not leave, though. Or you may find this choice forced upon you, Doren. We shall leave a few Gnolls just in case.”

In case he came back with his people and tried to take over the shop? In case Rags and her people—? The Goblin Chieftain was gazing at him, and he could see more things swirling around her. A different kind of connection, linking her to Prixall, Taganchiel, Redscar…

He didn’t think she was just a Goblin Chieftain.

Here it was. Suddenly, Doren was important. So important, in fact, that the fate of at least one Drake’s life lay in his hands. That entire powers of Izril, species, might want to use his shop.

Suddenly, he mattered. The Shopkeeper stared around, blinked at his half-empty takeout meal…and then vomited all over his counter.

Gothica leapt back, then grimaced.

“Told you it was bad Eater Goat meat. I miss Calescent.”

——

Doren didn’t sleep that night. Possibly, it was because of the six-Gnoll guard of Wild Wastes Gnolls hanging out in his shop, occasionally breaking something and trying to sweep the evidence under rugs.

Or it was Thorssin, who kept getting up to use the restroom after all he’d eaten and drunk. The knowledge people were suffering and only Doren could help them…

And that if he wasn’t careful, he was going to be so important someone had him killed.

Doren wasn’t a fool. He had heard the tragedy of Darth Erin the Chaotic…though he wasn’t sure why Gothica called her that. Apparently, it had to do with a movie, and apparently, movies were great.

He’d seen her sailing across the sea as everything tried to kill her. Doren didn’t believe, even in his most egotistical moments, that he would be like that. But he could imagine someone coming up, putting a crossbow up to his head, and pulling the trigger to have Cormeng’s.

This is why we don’t stock more than trinkets. This is why you don’t do more than low-level business! Idiot!

There was a reason Cormeng’s had been run like this. He’d just forgotten. Got it in his head to be a big man, an important man.

Now, if he chose the selfish thing to do, people died. But if he did the right thing…they still might die, but he might suffer.

Shaman Theikha was kind and wise. She’d sat him down and run through some hypotheticals. Speculated about how a Walled City might hear of him doing favors for a Gnoll tribe and make a counteroffer.

Or if he didn’t decide to take the offer, eliminate a potential asset for their enemies. Or find a way to blackmail him into only helping them. When he’d asked if this hypothetical was really that likely, she’d told him three true stories of people who’d thought they were just doing favors.

That was to say nothing of Terandria. Nothing of the Five Families or anyone else who just realized Cormeng’s was important and made a play.

All of this was a big reason to take down the Newspaper Exchange. To go back to selling trinkets, live like a humble man who had [Goths] over for tea each week…but balanced against that was Thorssin.

The Drake didn’t say as much. He simply sat there, rubbing at his dry scales, checking the gear the Gnolls had given him, and looked at Doren.

“My fiancée’s named Rikka. I know she can’t get out, but if you just take her—we can get word to Goisedall. You send a [Message]. Maybe get ‘em through the door so they see her, and we’ll pay you a fortune. Just Rikka. I can set out, but if you just take her…it won’t be that long. They’ll send someone to pick her up. She can help with the shop. I’m just asking you for one person. I won’t even tell the others. Do you have someone you love? Someone you’d die for?”

He was willing to not tell his people for her. He talked about food—just for a bit. If they could get some hunting spears. More wood. Something to barter with. Alchemical items. Then he realized he was asking for everything and pared it down. Just Rikka.

Just some drinking water. We can’t even drink water. If you just…

It was a long night.

——

The next day, Doren made a choice. Not because he’d thought through the long list of outcomes and decisions. Not because he was that confident, and certainly not because he was that wise.

He just couldn’t tell Thorssin no.

“I’ll, um…I’ll keep the door open. Don’t—don’t tell anyone. I’ll keep it open, and I can sell some food and water. I’m not able to let anyone stay here. But I’ll do that for a bit.”

One of the Wild Wastes Gnolls sighed, but Thorssin’s mouth fell open, and he clasped Doren’s hands, shaking them up and down. He promised repeatedly not to tell anyone. Then dashed through the door to find his group and somehow explain where he’d gotten all his new gear from.

When he was gone, the Wild Wastes [Barbarian] tapped Doren on the shoulder.

“Shaman Theikha told us this might happen. Here’s what we have to say: we won’t be doing this again, not for other people, even if they’re sick or dying. We might, but we promise nothing, yes? We’ll come by if the door remains open. But we cannot, will not, make this promise. It will be broken.”

It almost felt callous to hear the Gnolls of the Meeting of Tribes say that. Weren’t they filled with plenty of high-level Gnolls, rich tribes? But Doren didn’t manage to say that to the [Barbarian]’s face, and the Gnoll seemed to read his mind. He squatted down as the others left, then motioned to Doren.

“Sit with me, Human.”

Doren sat on the recently-cleaned floors, and the Gnoll broke out some jerky and silkap. He dipped the jerky in the silkap, munched on it.

“Wild Wastes specialty. Very tasty. My father’s Berr. It’s not a big deal. He has lots of sons.”

He was a huge Gnoll with blonde fur that looked like he could lift Doren with one arm if Doren wasn’t so floppy. He chewed as Doren tried the rather meaty meal and decided it was tasty enough. The Gnoll’s name was Hrawr.

“Don’t laugh. My father thought it was a really funny joke. Sometimes, his humor’s that of an ass. We’re not making this promise because we’ve tried it. Wild Wastes has. I don’t know about the other tribes, recently, but we meet people in need. Other tribes. We give what we can, but when you try to just…save them? You give and give, and you start tightening your belts. Only, the belt grows tighter and tighter until you’re both starving or you have to stop. There is no salvation for those people, not from us just pouring food and resources through that door. If we could send Gnolls, that would be different. But those people, they are sinking in their minds as much as the mud. That is my warning to you. You’re a kind man. But kindness does not lead a tribe well.”

It was more eloquent of a monologue than Doren thought he’d get from any [Barbarian], and Hrawr got up after that. He left Doren the jerky and silkap, slapping his thighs.

“Best of luck. I would…lock up this shop if I were you. Make it look less inviting. Can you close it off?”

He gestured at the open layout, and Doren hesitated.

“I—I think so. You can set up this wall that’s sturdy as a real one. I don’t bother—”

Hrawr leaned over, eyes intent.

“I would do that very quickly. And throw dirt down. This shop is a Skill, yes? And you have limited supplies. Be less inviting. Be a bit dangerous. Oh, and do you have a weapon?”

“Y-yes?”

“I wouldn’t pull it out. Hide the key to the shop and have very little to take. Better yet, make it look like there’s not much else. If you do this, if they think this place is better existing than looted, then you may get to make the mistake Theikha thinks you must make without dying.”

——

Doren took Hrawr’s advice. In fact, the Gnoll stayed to help Doren wrestle some of the wall panels out of deep storage. They were dusty, but when they were set up in little grooves on the floor, they did become walls so convincing that even Hrawr couldn’t tell there was a room on the other side.

With some ingenuity, Doren created a two-chamber room, the entryway and a smaller ‘store’ that had a hidden exit where if you put a key in the hole you could enter the rest of Cormeng’s. They hid the key in a wall panel designed for that very purpose, and the Gnoll even tossed dirt down and threw in an old hide rug as a doormat.

Doren nervously decorated his new shop after clearing out all the usual paraphernalia in the storeroom. He stocked, well, anything he thought was useful.

Cups, bowls, food, even just water in a big barrel that Hrawr helped fill up. The end result was such a dingy survivalist shop that Doren stared around. Hrawr said that he thought Doren ‘looked the part’, which might have been an insult hiding behind the compliment, but the truth was that Doren had a shopkeeper’s face.

Put him in a nasty shop and he became a down-on-his-luck shopkeeper peddling wares. Put him in a nice shop and he was a bored, upper-middle-income shopkeeper with nothing else to do. He was the ubiquitous shopkeeper, and as such, Doren decided to take ownership of this project.

“Welcome to Doren’s Outlet of Essentials and Edibles.”

He sat behind the counter, and Hrawr snorted at the doorway.

“Good luck.”

He gave the nervous man a long stare before nodding and leaving. Doren took in a huge breath, exhaled, inhaled…did that ninety-five more times until his head was swimming, then opened the door to the Mudhole. He restricted access from anywhere else but the Great Plains or Goblinhome.

Then he waited.

And waited.

…And it occurred to him that his store would look like any other hovel in whatever this place looked like. So Doren shut his eyes, then got up and gingerly opened the door. He stepped out, concentrating.

“Mudhole, Mudhole, Mudh—”

——

“—hole.”

He walked out into the rain. It was warm. It poured down sideways, pattering off roofs that had no shingles, just pieces of wood slanted, water leaking into houses—yes, houses—built onto the boardwalks.

Thorssin hadn’t lied. But he hadn’t told the truth, either. The Mudhole was a mess. As far as the eye could see, the ground was grey and brown. It was watery; figures splashed up to their waists, wading through the muck into the distance, and it seemed, here, like there might be nothing more than this world.

In the distance, tall ‘trees’ sprouted upwards. Some of wood, but most of brown stalks. Reeds—the same kind that were lashed together, forming the ground.

Boardwalk. Planks of rough reedwood, the water rushing up through the cracks. Sinking…in places, it was collapsed, and people had to walk around it. The houses were built of actual wood, stilts driven deep as could be, before people anchored wood together, forming a place to stand or sleep.

No glass. Virtually no lights. One or two lanterns emitting weak flames in places. A hanging jar filled with…fireflies? Glowing green.

But Thorssin hadn’t conveyed the other part of the Mudhole, and it was simply this: it was as big as a town.

There were people all around Doren as the man halted and stared, eyes wide. They were gathered together under eaves pouring water. Hauling nets up desperately. Haggling. Buying and selling what there was. Someone was gutting a giant lizard with a long snout and pale underbelly on a makeshift counter. The blade revealed red insides as the weary Drake split the crocodile open, and someone else yanked out its teeth, one by one.

For a second, two seconds, three, Doren stood there, glancing around, as people turned and saw light. Actual light spilling from a doorway. A ramshackle door, like any other, that revealed scents unlike the omnipresent marsh around them. A man whose skin wasn’t covered in a layer of grime.

The illusion he and Hrawr had put up shattered in a moment. Doren gazed around, wide-eyed—then Cormeng’s sucked him back into the shop.

His first guest came six minutes later.

——

A Human man stood in the doorway. Nose visibly broken and crooked, a fistful of wet, slimy fish hanging from a crude rope in one hand. His other hand hung near his coat. He had on no armor; instead, his gear was just thick clothing stained with that grey-brown mud. He was wide-chested, taller than Doren, but he stood so hesitantly that only when Doren called out did he move—and jump.

“W-welcome to Doren’s Outlet of…welcome in.”

Doren forgot his fake name. He forgot everything, so he just did what was ingrained. He shopkeeped. The man took a step forwards, and Doren coughed.

“Wipe your boots, if you don’t mind.”

That broke the spell. The man wiped his boots, for all the good it did, and stepped forwards.

“The hell’s this? This ain’t…possible. There’s a roof. You—you some kinda [Builder], man? One of the new lot? Can’t be. Can’t be.”

He was feeling at his neck, shivering, though the water had been warm. Doren was toweling himself off. The man stared at the towel, and Doren hesitated, but then shopkeepered again.

“Goods are in the next room. There’s not a lot, but if you have anything to sell, I take that too. This is a…wandering shop.”

“A wandering what? You mean an inn?”

“No, a shop. It’s my shop. It moves about. I’m Doren. I sell…things. Looking around’s free.”

It was not a great bit of shopkeepering, but Doren had ranges. This was the ‘unhelpful shopkeeper’ who expected you to get with the program. Rude? Perhaps. But it shut down the people who wanted to ask too many questions. Turned away some visitors—you employed it when you wanted business or no one at all.

There were always exceptions, but it worked. The man lurched past the counter, took a look into the next room, then swung around.

“So it’s a magical shop? Where am I?”

“You’re in Doren’s.”

“But is it in the New Lands? Can I get out or—?”

Hope blossomed in his eyes, urgent, and sudden desperation like Thorssin. Doren talked over him hurriedly.

“The shop doesn’t let you go out anywhere but where you came in. It’s a Skill. Not magic. There’s no…miracles here.”

That worked. The shoulders slumped, but then the man peered around, and what he saw in the next room had him striding in. Doren, channeling the nosy shopkeeper now for all he was worth, left his counter and sidled into the shop area.

Every ounce of Doren channeled ‘I’m not here because I don’t trust you, I’m just here to make sure the merchandise stays where it belongs and I have counted it all’. Another power that was not a Skill so much as second nature. But his guest didn’t notice.

“This is…these are damn Yellats! Fresh! What’s this?”

“Water. Free with every purchase.”

The man stared at the barrel, then turned.

“Is it well-water?”

“Er, it’s from a well, but it’s rainwater.”

“Rainwater. Hah! Then it’s still filled with mildew-shit.”

The man turned away, instantly, which insulted Doren so much he snagged a glass cup and pressed on the barrel’s tap.

“Not your rainwater. It’s clean enough to drink. See!”

The clear water that poured into the cup had the man staring. He gazed at it as if it were some gem—then looked about.

“This is a magic shop. H-hey, what’ll you sell me? I’ll take the food, all of it. And if the water’s good, that too.”

“How much do you have?”

Doren felt like this was going splendidly. He could provide food for cheap, even reasonable prices! Offer people water, things they needed! He waited for the man to fork over some coins that he didn’t need…and the man felt at his side. Paused.

“I’ve got these fish. I’ll trade you them for half—a quarter of the Yellats.”

He pointed at the giant sack, and Doren’s face froze over. The man read his expression and cast about.

“I’ve got—I’ve got some spare knives.”

He fished out daggers, all of them rusted. Doren coughed.

“Don’t you have…coins?”

“I—they’re with the [Merchants]. I had to buy line and tackle and—hold on!”

Now the man was getting upset. Very upset, far faster than any customer that Doren had ever had. He was searching himself, shaking the filthy fish at Doren—they were tiny! One was enough for a mouthful assuming it wasn’t all bones. Doren did not want them. He was no [Shopkeeper], but he estimated that one—washed—was probably worth a Yellat.

“Listen, give me some of those Yellats and I’ll get you something for ‘em. I can trade—”

“I don’t give away my goods, sir. If you don’t have any coins or anything to barter—”

The man’s hand went back to his belt again, and Doren saw a long belt knife there. He grabbed the handle, but his eyes were fixed on Doren’s face. The man’s face became ruddy, and he shouted.

“I’ve been so damn hungry I’d trade my boots for Yellats for weeks! You’ve got plenty! You—just sell me a few, damnit! I’ll pay it back!”

Theikha’s warning was in Doren’s mind. He was backing up to the counter, suddenly very relieved his shop wasn’t open. But he—he—saw the man eye him, then swing around.

“How much you got? Is there other rooms?”

Now he was surveying the place. Glancing at the door. Like a man calculating how hard it would be to grab the sack, no, wait, just lock the door and then grab the sack after…

Doren was trembling. His shopkeeper training didn’t have an answer for this. He hesitated, and Doren rasped.

“This is all I have, sir. And I don’t sell my goods without remuneration in kind! Don’t you have anything to sell?”

It was like a plea. The man just stared at his filthy clothing, the fish on a line, the knife—his hand tightened on the hilt of the long dagger, and Doren stared at his broken nose. The shopkeeper’s mind was racing, and he spoke without thinking—

“Those fish are barely worth a Yellat apiece. But if you had one of those giant lizards, or a larger fish, I could do ten Yellats for a big fish. The lizard, well, that might be worth half the Yellat bag! And a gallon of water!”

The huge man halted. His eyes flicked to Doren. Then he blinked.

“You want a damn crocodile? Whaddya mean larger fish?”

Both men were confused, but Doren’s mouth spoke with the desperation of a mouth longing to still be attached to a body.

“Well…I need to resell anything I buy. Fish? There’s some value in fish, but those are too small to be worth much. I’ll need to sell them, bulk. Live fish are worth more.”

“What? Live?”

“Well, of course. They’d be good for breeding, good for anyone collecting them from the New Lands—you are in the New Lands, right?”

“Yes—”

“The giant lizard, what did you call it? It might be worth something to an alchemist! Or a tanner You get me one and that’s an entire bag of Yellats, friend. But only the first one. I’ll need to see what it’s worth. Tell you what, there’s five fish there. I’ll trade for five Yellats, but you get me a bigger fish and it’s more. Alive and then we’re talking.”

The man was staring at him. Then he glanced down at the fish in his hand.

“Alive. Alive…there’s plenty they get tangled in nets. You want ‘em alive? I could scoop up some of the shitwater and—I just need a bucket.”

“I have buckets. Wonderful things, buckets. I use them all the time. This one’s a splendid bucket.”

Doren hurried over and produced a well bucket. Probably meant for a literal well. He waved it at the man.

“You’re a discerning customer. I tell you what, what if I sold you this bucket at the knock-down price of five fish? Which is an investment, but then you can get me a large fish.”

“…A bucket.”

“I’ll throw in a Yellat and a cup of water.”

Now his customer was hesitating, but Doren was now in upsell-shopkeeper mode. And the man was thinking out loud.

“If I ran down to the nets and just…a Yellat, fresh? Or some of the knives and I’d get a live fish. I could get a bunch maybe—”

His eyes were flickering, and Doren was thinking faster than this fellow, given his comparative sleep and hygiene and food. He raised his hands.

“I only need one of most species! For now. But fish, valuables of any kind that are useful—you just come back and I’ll be here.”

The man peered around the store.

“Right here? What, every day?”

“More or less. The shop doesn’t move if I don’t want it to, and if I have business…”

And if you don’t murder me…

The big man was licking his lips. He eyed the Yellat and bucket that Doren was proffering. He glanced at his fish. They dripped on the floor. Then he stared at the cup of water and pointed at it with the energy of a customer who thought he was haggling hardball.

“Let me—let me taste the water first. If it’s good, then it’s a deal.”

Doren breathed in relief.

——

Eighteen minutes later, the man returned, panting, looking as if he’d run or at least sloshed across Mudhole to come back with a very, very muddy something squirming around in a bucket. Doren stared at it.

He’d gotten out a cast iron cauldron which was heavy as hell, and when the specimen was poured into it, it did indeed reveal a fish, a long…well, fish squirming around with three bugs.

“It’s alive, see? How much is it worth?”

The desperate man was excited, and Doren decided that yes, this was worth ten Yellats to avoid arguing over the price. When he handed them over in a sack, the man hesitated.

“It’s a good fish. Might be worth twenty Yellats.”

“It’s not that big.”

Doren gave the man a flat look. Partly because one of the bugs had jumped onto his pants and was trying to hump its way up. But mostly because he was back in control. The man hesitated.

“Do I get a cup of water at least?”

Doren was half-tempted to let him keep the cup since the residue his lips left was visible on the glass, but he encouraged the man with a smile.

“That’s one fish. I don’t need another, er, long mudfish, but if there are other breeds, I’ll offer a bounty on any new ones. And regular fish I’ll take for smaller amounts.”

“You still want the crocodiles?”

The man was sniffing at the ten Yellats. They weren’t the biggest ever, but Doren knew from experience that three Yellats was actually pretty filling with butter and salt. Just not…great. However, that made him glance to the side.

“Well now, a dead one’s worth less, and an, er, live one I’m not set up to carry. But if you got me, say, the head?”

Heads of animals usually contained things that alchemists wanted. He pointed.

“I could trade a jar of butter for that.”

“B—”

When the man saw that, he nearly exploded. It didn’t seem to occur to him that there was butter on sale. Yellats were magical. Butter was incomprehensible. But there was also salt, pepper—basic goods that Doren had bought when he was running from home.

“I—I can get more fish. I’ll be back!”

The man charged out the door. Doren sat back—but before he had a chance to wait, the door opened, and someone else came in.

“Hwalt said this place weren’t worth checking out. But I think—”

A trio of Humans froze in the doorway. They stared at the shop. At Doren. The shopkeeper instantly knew what Hwalt had done, and he glowered after the man’s back.

“It’s—what is—”

This time, Doren hit them first. He called out.

“Welcome to Doren’s Outlet! I’m in the market for live fish. Your friend just sold me one species—I have a special on crocodile heads. Free water with every trade. Anyone need a bucket?”

He smiled, now adopting the bare-toothed grin of a man desperate to sell you something. The energetic shopkeeper harangued the paralyzed trio until one caught on.

Food for fish? Food for…

Fresh food.

Butter?

Then they were running, and the door slammed open almost as soon as they’d gone. Doren saw a scared face peeking in. He began to call out and choked.

A little Drake with a hood over her head stared at Doren. Then ran for it. A child. Doren sat paralyzed as his sudden exuberance turned to horror in a flash. He sat there—until the door opened and the next customer came in. The two stared at each other, a Dullahan and Human, until Doren broke the silence.

“I have food. Do you have anything to sell? Welcome…to Doren’s.”

It was the longest, muddiest day of his life. But he was not bored a second of it.

——

It was a long day. At first, there was a rush of people coming in and asking the same question.

That was the funny thing about service work: even something like telling someone you were from a magical shop that could deliver food into your darkest hour got…sort of old the hundredth time you had to say it.

In a way, the fact that Doren got tired and became more brisk and retiring about the shop helped sell it to the people of Mudhole.

Which was the name of the town, apparently. Two things surprised Doren that day. The first was that his store wasn’t instantly ransacked by everyone. Oh, it clearly became a newsworthy topic, and a lot of people came in to introduce themselves as the leader of this expedition or an adventuring captain and to see what they could buy.

Many had actual coins, so Doren ended up trading at reasonable prices for his food and supplies. He was even able to tactically restock and claim it was a Skill by limiting who was entering…people would leave but not come in. However, he did end up with several containers full of various fish and even a few other animals from the swamps.

That was his way of giving food to people for more than it was worth. Hwalt was actually the least-sympathetic customer in that regard, and he’d made it easier by establishing precedent. Some of the people who came in were so hungry and hopeful that Doren nearly gave them Yellats…but he knew where that would lead.

Besides, getting fish from the nets wasn’t that hard, apparently. It was just that most were tough, relatively low on meat, and tasteless. Yellats? Yellats filled you up, and Doren had once read, in Cormeng’s journals, that they had been created to deal with famines.

They even grew in this mucky terrain, which said something about how universal they were. So they had far more value, as did some salt, than, well, anything.

Wood too. When Doren realized some people were eying buckets or other pieces of gear just for the wood content, he got some firewood, and it sold out almost as fast as everything else. They wanted it, water, food, spices…

I’ll need to have way more barrels of water or another way to sell it. The well crisis was something the people were well aware of, and apparently even the rainwater was ‘mucky’ to hear one person describe it. Something in the very water was, uh…not being lost when it evaporated and came down. Or maybe the clouds were raining it through the funk of fog and mist.

The point was that while he arguably hadn’t made much of a profit given that a lot of his goods were in fish and other muddy proceeds, Doren had sold out most of his products.

The odd thing was that, again, he didn’t have the entire town knocking down his door. And the reason for that came with a [Merchant].

“Merchant Lavroisse! Pheislant!”

The man actually had a servant announce him, and he swept in. He was the most mud-free person that Doren had seen, which still meant he was covered in spatters of it compared to Doren. This displeased Lavroisse, and his clothing was richer than Doren’s. He glanced around, made a show of inspecting Doren’s prices, and sniffed.

“A wandering shop? Some kind of rare Skill, no doubt. I can see why it’s caused a stir, but…well, given the capacity and prices, it shan’t do more than stabilize the economy. Which could use more influx of goods. But Yellats and water? You could stand to sell more, my good man.”

“Er, hello. Can I interest you in some goods, sir? Some butter, perhaps?”

Lavroisse rubbed Doren the wrong way the instant they met. [Merchants] tended not to like Cormeng’s, if they even found it. They wanted deals and rare finds, and Doren was good enough at appraising to never sell anything for lower than it really was worth. This man, though, was looking down on Doren despite being trapped in Mudhole.

The reason for that was because Lavroisse clearly thought he was still the bigger merchant between the two. When he saw the jar of butter, he laughed.

“Shopkeeper, butter? I have over a thousand pounds of butter. I would be the one selling to you if…bah, doubtless you do have access to outside goods. Which I will have, if we come to an arrangement. Laniver, inquire.”

He motioned at the servant, who hurried to explain that Merchant Lavroisse would be interested in buying bulk supplies at acceptable rates…the man himself was almost halfway out the door.

“You have butter? Food?”

“Well, yes, we do. Merchant Lavroisse’s caravan was stuck here when the rains hit, but he evacuated almost all of it to the town. He’s combined his goods with other like-minded caravans and is selling supplies to the townsfolk.”

“…You mean the people trapped in the sinking encampment?”

Laniver was a nervous young man who twitched when Doren said that and glanced over his shoulder for his master. He was a literal [Servant].

“I wouldn’t use that terminology around Merchant Lavroisse, sir. He’s been making money, even here!”

From everyone who was giving up what they had to survive. No wonder Hwalt and Thorssin didn’t have coins! They’d been paying for the goods that Lavroisse was selling under his monopoly. Doren really didn’t like that and coolly shot down Laniver. The young man might have tried to press in with Skills—most of which didn’t work on Rulebreakers like Doren—but for the second group.

Lieutenant Capsha of Manus was a Drake who came in, saluted, then began grilling Doren about whether he had a permit for his store. When the Human man blinked at her, she produced a notepad.

“Unauthorized building in the town premises is subject to a fine, sir! We have laws. A small portion of your goods would clear this incident with the Manus Security Force. The MSF is the only lawkeeping organization in this area, a fact you would do well to remember.”

“The what? You’re from Manus? The Walled City is in charge of this town?”

Lieutenant Capsha hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Doren, to Laniver, who’d paused to listen, and she spoke a tad too quickly.

“We are a group from Manus that has taken charge of the town’s security—for the Walled City, yes! When the City of War sends reinforcements, we will evacuate and establish an outpost here, I have no doubt. I report to Captain Cithoc. Now, about that fine…”

She wanted three bags of Yellats. Doren, recognizing a shakedown, offered her two and all the water left in his barrel. He wasn’t exactly happy, but the bribe was light, and both groups seemed to realize that Doren being here was a very, very good thing.

In fact, Capsha drew Doren aside.

“We’ve already sent word, but if you had access to a [Message] scroll, we would compensate you for a missive to Manus’ High Command. Here is the security clearance—tell them it is our current acting code—and a report to be delivered to the Mage’s Guild.”

She gave him a wet piece of paper, clearly re-used. Laniver did the same.

“We would like to communicate with the Mage’s Guild, the Runner’s Guild, and Pheislant…”

Both were very insistent that their respective parties knew they were here, of course. They just wanted to confirm and get correspondence back. Like everyone, they had been hoping that Doren’s door was a way out, but failing that…well.

Doren didn’t like either group. The [Lieutenant] didn’t thank him for the Yellats, just gave him a stern talking to about proper protocol. When Doren pointed out that his shop went where it pleased and it was the product of a Skill, she snapped back.

“That is no excuse! If we didn’t have the rule of law, where would we be? Without us, this town would fall to pieces, [Merchants] or not!”

She sneered at the [Servant] making his way into the rains. At this point, Doren was getting annoyed, so he replied in a very friendly tone.

“I understand, [Lieutenant]. Perhaps I should move my shop somewhere else if I’m that unwelcome?”

She froze. So did Laniver. Capsha stared at Doren as the color drained from her scales, and she spoke.

“Please don’t. We need—we could use the supplies.”

Then she colored and got angry, but that moment told Doren just how much of her authority was a show. Manus acting as ‘security’, merchants with a monopoly.

Wonderful.

The bright side was that Doren did see Thorssin again. And his fiancée! The two wet Drakes and half of his caravan came near the end of the day. They’d been, apparently, eating the food that Thorssin had brought and plotting a potential route out of the swamps.

The trouble was, Doren was pretty sure the mudflats were huge, and Thorssin and his group were clearly malnourished. But they’d brought fish to trade, and he gave them a good deal on the rest of his food.

“So you’re going to keep the store open like this?”

Thorssin glanced around Cormeng’s. He alone knew what it should look like. Rikka seemed to know too; she was actually not what Doren expected. He’d assumed she was a bit less adventurous than Thorssin. He’d pictured her thin, perhaps worn down, but she was in fact a pretty tough-looking Drake woman with strong arms who had a homemade harpoon.

She even had a crocodile head he gingerly accepted. She smiled wearily as he counted Yellats into a sack with the butter.

“Thank you. It ain’t like fishing back home, but we’re [Mariners], some of us. There’s never enough to go around, though, even if I get a croc. That’s what some Balerosians called ‘em. Nasty, and they’ve killed more people than I can count. You can hunt them but it doesn’t solve everything.”

“Because they’re not that edible?”

It looked very…hard to eat. But Rikka shook her head instantly.

“No, it’s selling the meat for fuel. For more reedwood to keep us from sinking. Everything has a cost, and there’s not enough hands to do it all.”

“At least not with Manus taking their cut and the [Merchants] the other. But now we have Doren’s shop…”

Thorssin was full of hope. Doren assured everyone he’d be here tomorrow with more goods. That was what made him feel positive. Good. Hopeful.

He was so much of these things, in fact, that he didn’t realize that one of his customers didn’t belong to Mudhole. A Gnoll loitering around the shop declined to instantly leave when Doren told people he was closing up. He assumed the Gnoll wanted reassurances the store would be open—until the Gnoll pulled off a rather smelly, tattered cloak to reveal clean fur underneath.

“If now is good, Shopkeeper Doren, we would like to inspect some of what you’ve traded for. Is this acceptable?”

The Meeting of Tribes had sent someone to check on him, just as promised! That wasn’t the surprise; he had been told they’d monitor him.

The surprise was learning that the Gnolls fancied some of what he’d gotten was actually valuable.

Certainly, when washed, the fish looked more appealing, but only just. One look at the wiggling, brown flatfish that was vaguely eel-like and Doren opined you could get one in any stream in the world. But the Gnoll [Alchemist] gave him an amused look.

“What looks the same is not always so, Shopkeeper. We will buy all of it if you will sell. We are very interested in this, uh, crocodile thing, too. It is a known species, but comparing it to regular breeds and seeing if any part is useful in alchemy or spellcasting or manufacture is worth something, yes?”

Ah, commerce. Doren was only too pleased to sell his goods—which included the insects! Actually, the insects were worth almost as much as the fish. The Gnoll patiently caught some of them hopping about for Doren and promised to return tomorrow with any news of what might be valuable.

This business model might actually work! Doren had plenty of supplies so far, and the Gnolls had food of their own. Lots of pemmican, apparently. Water was, well, free so long as it rained regularly, and so Doren was hauling out more goods, groaning as he rubbed at his back and wishing he had a bit of healing potion.

He opened the door to Cormeng’s proper, and his third surprise was Gothica.

“Aaaah!”

She was eating his egg sandwich! After he’d stopped screaming and she’d stopped laughing at him, the [Goth] sat on the counter.

“That not all bad. Sure, they stinky, but not ‘hunger-death-eating-each-other’ bad. Everyone in Goblinhome think it worse. I knew non-Goblins too weak to properly die.”

“It seems pretty bad to me, Gothica. That first man nearly attacked me!”

“Yah, but you did good shopkeepering. I nearly shit myself laughing when you sold him bucket.”

“Wait, you were watching?”

Doren was indignant! Gothica had, apparently, been watching him all day from the shadows. She picked at her teeth, completely unapologetic.

“Chieftain Rags wanted to know it be how.”

“You mean how it be—argh, you mean, how it is. Why didn’t you help?”

Gothica gave him a serious look.

“Chieftain Rags said you have to do it yourself. No helping unless your face was getting turned into pancake mix. I volunteered even though I’m sooo busy because…I like you.”

She stared past him, blushing, then snapped.

“And because the Twilight Sanctuary goes away if you die! So no deaths, yay. We not always around, though, me and suspicious Gnoll. So be careful, got it?”

She slapped his shoulder hard, and he rubbed at it. But he was smiling.

“I think I’m doing good, Gothica. Not much, but…they need food, and I can make some money. This is better than the antiques store.”

The [Goth] paused and gave Doren a serious gaze.

“Yeah, sure. But you remember the tragedy of Darth Erin.”

“Don’t overcommit, don’t risk yourself, yes, yes.”

Gothica hesitated. She opened her mouth, then peered at Doren.

“No, that not the tragedy at all. Argh. How do I explain it? I don’t know how to say it right…where Numbtongue when you need him? Maybe I’ll say there’s some hot other Rags in Goblinhome and he come running over.”

…She lost him, but that was normal. Gothica vanished in a poof of smoke, and he saw the door open and close and concluded she’d actually left for the night. Doren’s throat was sore, his back ached, but he lay in bed, smiling, for a good hour, brimming with ideas.

He felt it.

He felt like he mattered.

He wondered if Toren would have been proud of him.

——

Thus began Doren’s new life as an undercover shopkeeper. Now he was Doren of Doren’s Outlet, not of Cormeng’s! Being a ‘lower-level’ shopkeeper with a far smaller store was actually fun.

The physical labor of stocking everything, not so much. But Gothica usually came by, and he could bully her into helping. The Gnolls also came to report in what they liked each day, but Doren was actually more motivated than he’d been since he was twenty.

For instance, the next day he had multiple barrels of water set up and more goods on offer. Also, things more suited to the needs of the wetlanders. For instance, buckets weren’t actually a huge draw; you could make them out of most scrap material.

New boots? Merchant Lavroisse didn’t come in person, but his servant, Laniver, was fighting with the queue of people trying to get a pair.

Lieutenant Capsha also appeared to ‘levy’ a pair, but when she found out he only had Human boots, she complained. Which made Doren think—well, couldn’t he get other boots?

The next day, he had boots that the Gnolls had provided. He got the impression some might be…war loot and was accordingly sparing with the price, but they sold. Socks, boots.

Tar for roofing materials! Things Doren never thought to get were valuable goods. Indeed, nails were vital. That was how he ended up returning to the Unseen Empire, incidentally.

Doren chose a time just past midday when he hoped the [Mercenaries] wouldn’t be on-guard and rushed out his door to the market. He was so worried, but he had to get more food and tar—he actually surprised the hell out of one of the Emperor’s Hands. Doren was at the second stall, buying goods and shoving them into a portable Chest of Holding, when a group of them hurried over to ask if he had time to meet one Lady Rie.

That made Doren immensely worried, but the [Lady] turned out to be a gracious hostess who assured him the [Bounty Hunters] had been arrested and then evicted from her lands, and that she was delighted to have Cormeng’s owner in her city. Why, the Unseen Emperor himself might like to visit.

Doren had hesitated over showing the man the shop and revealing the truth—and Lady Rie had apparently sensed that and offered him the chance to meet with Emperor Godart at a later date. For now, she would be delighted to arrange an agreement so he received a discount on buying and selling goods.

That suited Doren very much. It may have surprised Lady Rie how many odd goods he wanted, but for the gold he put down, no one was complaining. He also didn’t know that Laken Godart’s interest in the magical store of Cormeng’s was reduced almost to zero when he learned it was a pawnshop not technically on his lands.

His exact words to Lady Rie about wanting to bump into every standing pot in creation meant that Doren was, to the Unseen Empire, simply a good guest to have around. The [Witches] were a bit disappointed not to find the store when they roved around the city, though. [Witches] loved a good trinket you could use for some stylish witchcraft.

——

Supplies acquired, and a home re-established, Doren spent most of his time selling to Mudhole’s inhabitants. But not all his time.

He still had the Twilight Sanctuary open, and he’d come up with a clever little system. He’d only open his shop for half a day in Mudhole, half a day as regular old Cormeng’s. Then he’d welcome in guests, ushering them past the ‘rooms under construction’ and into the main store.

It lost him some traffic, but it kept the ruse up. That was mostly for the [Goths] and so his Newspaper Exchange didn’t get completely wasted. Plus…Mudhole was tiring.

The inhabitants were still desperate, hungry, and as such, Doren had to deal with people trying to steal, swindle, haggle, or just intimidate him.

His advantage was that no one wanted to kill the golden goose, but that didn’t stop some from threatening. The first few thefts, Doren just tried to put everything under lock and key. Then he tried having all the goods in another room and going back there to retrieve them after being paid.

Then someone stuck a knife in his face and told him to give them everything he had, and he reconsidered how smart it was to be a middle-aged man without a weapon. But the thing about being needed was that you were important enough to guard.

After the first incident, Lieutenant Capsha appeared with some Drakes who kept a lookout for two days after having apprehended the perpetrator and gotten most of the goods back, which was surprisingly honest.

However, the ‘fees’ kept adding up, so Doren wagered they’d sent a good message and refused to hire Capsha a third day.

He was not good at gambling since someone tried to hold him up while two buddies ransacked his store on the third day. Happily—or unhappily—his savior that day turned out to be none other than Hwalt himself.

The burly man who’d been Doren’s first official guest was no [Warrior], but he brawled hard, and despite making a mess, Doren did end up paying for security. Namely, from Thorssin and his group; someone would come in each day and just act as security. That was enough of a deterrent, and it gave Doren an excuse to give the Drake and his people some food and supplies.

Hwalt…well, he became a regular in Doren’s store. Not one Doren liked, mind, but he was always coming back with some fish he wagered was new or plant matter to trade for. And Doren did have buyers. The Gnolls and Goblins were interested in his samples, though Gothica had apparently taken and fried up some of the fish meant for their laboratories more than once.

Doren had even had an idea he’d thought was quite clever: he began buying things that weren’t useful to Mudhole. Plants that weren’t standard, fish that were known to be poisonous. After all, if it could be used in alchemy…that gave him even more ‘income’ and reasons to pay people in food.

He’d been rather proud of that. Right up until Laniver told him that Merchant Lavroisse had already had the same idea.

“The [Merchant] has a huge stockpile of such goods in anticipation of a supply chain being established. A number of other groups have done the same.”

Well…Doren knew what some things were actually worth! Not that the Gnolls or Goblins were exactly top-tier [Alchemists] or [Mages]; they were investigating the flora and fauna and grateful to have their own backdoor supply to this biome, but hardly quick about making use of the stuff.

Whatever. He didn’t need to make a riproaring profit. Doren would have taken being in the negative to be helpful to the people of Mudhole. But the consequence of that was getting to know the people.

Hwalt, Thorssin and Rikka, Lieutenant Capsha, and Laniver were the ones that Doren got to know on sight, along with a few others. He learned a lot. He didn’t like them all, mind you.

——

Hwalt, for instance, was a former [Dockhand]-turned-[Mooring Master]. A fairly prestigious job, to hear him tell it, that had let him earn good coin steering ships into landing. But like everyone, he’d gone to the New Lands on the first ship out.

He was a short-tempered man, though the place he was stuck in was a good excuse. But not a…well-suited man to surviving if that made sense. He was strong, decently adept at fishing, but he had few Skills that parlayed into this strange survival. Until Doren came along, he’d been doing poorly.

Partly because survival in the wilds was not like living a city life, even one rough-and-tumble as docklife could be. He had, in fact, been sick when he met Doren and continued to be so for nearly a week thereafter.

“Damn fever. I’ve got chills, and even the rain feels cold as ice. Got anything for that?”

Doren did not, but cures for ailments was a good reason to talk to the [Alchemists]. He even went specially to Riverfarm via a carriage to use the magical door and buy some alchemy from a place called ‘Stitchworks’ and from Pallass.

And to consult with some [Healers]. Hwalt was happy to get a tonic that would help with fevers, but he was less so after being told that one of the remedies to his illness was to stop drinking.

“What’re you, mad? A bottle’s the only damn thing that makes it bearable!”

“Right, and have you been drinking, uh, as long as you’ve been sick?”

The man self-consciously lifted a flask up.

“It’s my only damn Skill that’s useful here. [Free Refill: Mariner’s Rum]. Been trading it when I needed to, but it’s kept me on my feet.”

And sick as a dog. The [Healer] that Doren had consulted with had worn an expression of pure horror on her face when she realized that her hypothetical patient had been trying to out-drink a fever with rum and plagued wellwater. According to her, the odds of Hwalt dying due to lack of proper hydration were high.

Certainly, the man seemed to grow markedly better once Doren convinced him to stop drinking and buy more clean water from the shop. He still came around too often with an attempt to bully Doren into paying more than he should for new items, but he had saved Doren from a robbery once. And nearly mugged the shopkeeper himself.

Imperfect.

——

Thorssin and Rikka were like that. The Drake who’d started all this was someone that Doren wanted to get out of here. He did, and Thorssin was, by all accounts, brave—he’d been hunting nonstop to keep his group fed and had refused to exile any of them for not pulling their weight—

But he was also a bit…reliant on Doren. He came around often, searching for a better deal than anyone else got. And he’d ‘just so happen’ to mention Cormeng’s, or the generosity that he’d had on the first day, and Doren would hear him mention how they were preparing to get out of here, if they could build their strength up another day or two, get that hook that would make Rikka’s life easier…

That was annoying because it was obvious. Rikka, by contrast, was a bit easier to deal with. Mostly because she could actually bag a number of marine lifeforms.

Even an actual crocodile. She brought in a young version of the species one day, thrashing and tied up with ropes, a huge gash on her arm, but grinning.

“This is what I came to the New Lands for. Not this, but levelling! If only it were like this and not watching our friends die of starvation. If only—”

Then she leaned on his counter and cried for a bit, and he patted her on the shoulder and was reminded, again—

He was just the shopkeeper. He couldn’t work miracles. People were still dying in the mudflats, poisoned by something, dragged down by the tentacle-monsters. Still dying of starvation or dysentery.

But dead gods, he was trying.

——

Easier to blame people for why Mudhole was the way it was. Merchant Lavroisse—few people liked him who weren’t in his employ.

Arguably, Laniver, his most trusted servant, hated him. The signs were there. But the young man was too afraid to break with his employer who had so much food and security.

“I haven’t been in Merchant Lavroisse’s service long. He has families who’ve served his for ages; his is a noble family. I’m just an employee who was in debt in the Merchant’s Guild. He liked my work and bought my contract. I’m a [Financial Servant]. A pun, ha-ha.”

He was a nervous, self-effacing young man of maybe twenty-three…who haggled like a Demon of Rhir and knew the value of what he was selling Doren. Arguably better than Lavroisse; Laniver would be there every morning to scope out what was on sale that could not be bought elsewhere in Mudhole.

“Does Lavroisse really have a thousand pounds of butter? It’ll go bad in time, especially in this muck.”

Doren finally asked Laniver one day, and the young man glanced around, but the only person inside was Gothica; she liked to hang out, hiding from her job in Goblinhome. He whispered confidentially.

“He does. Not a thousand pounds; less due to rot and usage, but he consolidated everyone else’s goods, and new people do come by now and then. Some even trade from their outposts. It is not impossible to leave Mudhole. Just…even if you leave, the rest of the New Lands await.”

And there were monsters and such out there. You had to be well, well prepared to make your exit, and the security of a town, even like this, was better than risking a return voyage with almost nothing. Doren grimaced; he’d heard Thorssin telling him that many times, but he had to ask.

“But Lavroisse’s goods will expire over time. He’ll be impoverished here. He’s lost his caravans.”

“Yes, Doren. If that’s all he has when he leaves. But if Mudhole becomes a proper settlement…have you heard of the dredging project?”

It sounded like madness. Doren and Gothica stared at Laniver, and she actually tried to leave the door to see this.

The problem with being in his shop was that he did miss things unless someone told him. And one of the big projects in Mudhole was the dredging project.

It was an effort by Lavroisse to turn this piece of land into something actually usable. His theory was that a town was here, albeit one ramshackle and sinking. But if you could stabilize the foundations, if you dug, dug, and piled enough dried muck high enough, you could create something like an island here.

Madness, it sounded like, but Laniver was from Pheislant, and he assured Doren it was doable, in practice. In fact, that was the only thing Manus’ security agreed on. They wanted to develop Mudhole on the assumption that it would be valuable in some way. If Lavroisse emerged from this place owning a large portion of this town, he might just come out with a win.

“There is something valuable in the New Lands, sir. Merchant Lavroisse has a Skill: [Detect Inherent Value]. It does not lie to him. He’s seen it in places, and here…it might be easier to get here, where it is muck and mud. He has recovered a few items. And that is all I can say.”

——

So it sounded like there was something of worth here, something so valuable Laniver refused to barter it, even for the objects that Doren could acquire. But if Lavroisse was half of Mudhole’s authority, the other half was Manus.

And Doren…found out things about the Manus Security Force, or MSF.

The Gnolls were interested in his project. Theikha herself would pop by every few days to chat with him. She was very busy, but more than one Gnoll came by to pretend to be one of Mudhole’s inhabitants or talk with one of their kin lost in this place.

Accordingly, they shared gossip about the New Lands with Doren. Stuff like the Adventurer’s Haven coming under attack, rumors about missing caravans, news about failed expeditions, and so on. But they also did a bit of digging, and what they found blew Doren’s remaining hair nearly off his head.

“Lieutenant Capsha, this, er, leader of the MSF under—who is it, Captain Cithoc? She’s not a real [Lieutenant].”

Hrawr savored Doren’s open-mouthed expression of disbelief. Then Doren nearly screamed.

“What?”

“We looked it up. Manus loves their records, and unless she’s some kind of special agent—which she is not—she has no position in their military. She’s from Manus, yes, but she’s, well, a [Caravan Guard]. Captain Cithoc? Real Captain…he’s Captain of a Silver-rank team. Also Manus.”

They were faking it! Thorssin and every other Drake in Mudhole—and there were plenty since they’d set off from their cities—believed that the MSF was from Manus’ military. Doren was so fired up he wanted to go tell everyone right away, but Hrawr cautioned him.

“My advice is to only use it when you need leverage, and be careful at that. They’re still the biggest group of fighters, and they could decide you’re a threat. Remember, Drakes don’t run. They also don’t negotiate or play well with competitors. Trust a Drake to be unreasonable.”

Now there was an expression to live by. It made Doren rather grumpy and short with Lieutenant Capsha, especially when she came around for her daily bribes.

However, annoyingly, she seemed to rather like his shop. She’d come in after wiping her feet carefully on his doormat, actually purchase some things before getting the MSF’s dues, and make small-chat about the goings on in camp.

She appeared genuinely embarrassed by her cover story and self-aware enough to realize that her group was living a lie. She’d strut about in front of any of the Mudhole inhabitants who came by, then drop the act around him since he was ‘outside her jurisdiction’.

Very annoying. It put Doren’s teeth on edge, and his only solace was that Gothica loved to hang out and needle the Drake.

“So if you so smart and important, how come no one in Manus teach you guys how to recognize a bog?”

Capsha stopped drinking some complimentary water and glared at Gothica.

“For your information, we were responding to a distress call when the rains hit! Part of the reason we can dredge at all is that our group brought plenty of digging tools! We were going to build a fort north from here.”

She sighed longingly, staring northwards.

“Just in the Eternal Grasslands. There’s a waystation some Drake was setting up. Woll, I think. Our plan was to copy him on the other side. That way, you’d be able to stop on either side of the terrain. Maybe even put up outposts, you know? So people didn’t get lost.”

That…actually sounded somewhat intelligent. Doren stopped glowering at the officer of stolen valor and frowned.

“But the MSF’s staying here?”

She coughed and tried to hide a blush by pulling her raincoat hood over her head.

“Well, yes, our wagons are all sunk by now. And we’re needed here. That’s the thing. Someone has to keep order, and I’m used to thunking heads—in the army, I mean! It might not appear perfect to you, but if we weren’t patrolling and punishing people…it can get worse. It was worse before we started calling on the authority of Manus.”

She paused, staring into her drink, then smiled at him.

“Tell me more about your home. I wanted to go to the north. I couldn’t, of course, because it’s so dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“For Drakes. I was told we’d be ambushed and killed if we went north. Oh, I know there’s a few Drakes, but the Five Families have an iron grip over the north.”

Doren smiled, despite himself, at what a barefaced lie that was. He told an incredulous Capsha how the Five Families barely had any sway in the southern areas and that he’d met plenty of Drakes. Sure there was some bad sentiment, but in general, if it wasn’t around the time of the annual Bloodfields battles, no one cared.

She wanted to hear mostly about the city he was in, though. He hadn’t told her it was in the Unseen Empire, so he made up a place close-ish to the New Lands. She closed her eyes as he described the streets filled with growing flowers and trees, not the omnipresent muck.

“I’d love to walk those streets and visit your shop in person. I owe you a drink, and…well, I’d love to repay you for all this, Doren.”

She stared at the place in her imagination until Gothica snorted.

“Yah, for all the stuff you take. How much is ‘not getting teeth kicked in’ fee today?”

Lieutenant Capsha glared at Gothica.

“You’re awfully mouthy for someone in Mudhole relying on us. Where do you live, Miss Gothica?”

“Up your butt lane.”

“Assphel street or—wait, is that an insult? How dare you—”

Gothica kept making fun of Capsha until the woman had to go, then she loudly admired her own boots, which weren’t muddy like Capsha’s. Doren covered a smile.

“You could be a bit nicer to her, even if she’s faking it. It sounds like she is useful; Thorssin mentions that the MSF does patrol and stop thefts. She ran down that thief the other day, remember?”

The Cave Goblin scoffed.

“Bah, you too good for her.”

“Um, thank you?”

She eyed him, then sighed and threw up her claws.

“…Someday, I learn how to speak right. Then you see. Then you all see.”

——

The last guest that Doren knew by face, if not name, was the little Drake girl who sometimes snuck in and stole things. He pretended not to notice.

It was just a Yellat here, a bit of food there. She was a kid, and he hoped she had parents, but she ran whenever he noticed her. The part that made her more than the other kids—and there were some, damnit; who could think to bring children into the New Lands?—was that she wasn’t just…a Drake.

She was a Drowned Drake. The first he’d ever seen. She had little gills on the left side of her neck and a fish’s features. A local one, so dark brown-black fins that protruded and slimier scales. He asked about it, and it was Hwalt who figured it out.

“That kid? Caravan of hers got mired in a bad storm. We think her group all drowned. Damned thing. But she came up when the MSF got there. Pulled her out, and she was like that. I didn’t know the Blessing of the Sea came this far inland.”

That hurt Doren so badly he tried to get the girl to steal more when she came in. He’d look completely the other way or bend down behind the counter. She wasn’t homeless, according to Lieutenant Capsha.

“We put her with one of the better-off Drake groups.”

“Like Thorssin and Rikka’s?”

She threw her head back.

“Hah! Wait, you’re serious? No, a proper group. But they can’t take care of a girl like that all the time. She runs about with all the other kids. So long as they stay on the boardwalk, it’s safe enough.”

“But surely someone’s watching her?”

“With what time, Shopkeeper?”

That was an answer that didn’t satisfy Doren, and he anxiously would wait if he didn’t see her on a given day, hoping to see her scuttle in. But to his surprise, the little Drake girl ended up becoming a paying customer.

One day, he was very deliberately not looking at the little figure standing in front of his counter so long she had to tap it before he glanced down and realized she’d brought something to trade.

“Oh, hello there. What’s, um, what’s this?”

She had in her hands a cracked mason’s jar with a simple piece of wood for a lid. But inside of the piece of trash which couldn’t even hold water was…

Light. He blinked down and saw glowing green bugs lighting up the lantern that was now common to Mudhole. Fascinated, Doren took it and nearly knocked it over. She caught it urgently.

“Is…is it worth something?”

There were a bunch of bugs inside; she must have been catching them for ages. They were smaller than regular fireflies but glowed even more fiercely. Doren hesitated, then made a show of exclaiming over the lantern.

“Why, no one’s sold me one of these!”

No one had, in point of fact. He sold plenty of lantern oil, but Doren reckoned the Gnolls or Goblins might want to look at the bugs. He paid the little girl in a link of sausages and twenty Yellats and would have added more, but she stuffed the prize down her shirt and fled, possibly fearing he’d reconsider.

That established his relationship with the Drowned Drake girl, who brought him bugs. Doren instituted a standing ‘lantern policy’ where if she brought him enough bugs to fill a lantern, he’d pay her.

It meant he had a surplus of the little glowflies, as they were known, and he ended up storing them in a huge jar in Cormeng’s proper. The blasted things were a nuisance when they got out, but they did glow for ages. Even when dead, their abdomens were shiny. Magical too. He could see the glow on them.

Which was odd because everyone insisted magic was gone in the New Lands. But Cormeng’s magic told Doren a different truth. He assumed the truth was just that spells were being suppressed or some such; certainly, his shop seemed to be able to maintain a strong presence in the New Lands.

He checked on the Well Room a lot out of worry he was overdrawing the mana reserves, but he could see the mana wasn’t decreasing noticeably. Well, he did get a higher count on one of the values in the room. ‘Ambient Draw’ was close to maxed; it was one of Cormeng’s lesser-used safeguards that idiots in the past hadn’t paid attention to, like ‘Suppression’.

‘Ambient Draw’ was how much pull from outside was being exerted on the magic in Cormeng’s. If you went over the limit, you started to lose mana because there was such a void of mana that it was siphoning Cormeng’s magic inside his shop.

Highly dangerous. ‘Suppression’ was also a marker for how much magic Cormeng’s hid. So long as you weren’t blasting mana around, it looked like almost no magic was in the shop. Fraerling technology.

The point was that the blasted little glowflies had mana in them, which made them easy to locate when they got out of the big jar.

Now that was thinking with your full mind for you. Doren liked his little tricks. And it let him pay the girl, whose name was Silppie. It was a good day when she finally told him her name.

——

Doren was far from perfect. He made stupid mistakes all the time and didn’t think of really important things. Or just let things slide.

For instance, it didn’t occur to him to begin sending [Messages] to people on Mudhole’s behalf until he got a reply from Manus and the Merchant’s Guild.

The Merchant’s Guild was rather standoffish, sending him a magically sealed letter for Merchant Lavroisse’s eyes only, but Manus wanted to know what was going on and had a missive for Captain Cithoc.

It was when he mentioned that to Thorssin that the Drake gazed at him and asked if he could get a message to Goisedall. Doren realized, belatedly, that most of the people in Mudhole might be feared missing or dead.

When he gingerly sent a [Message] spell to Goisedall’s Mage’s Guild saying he knew some people from there, could he be told if their families were searching for them, he had to wait four whole days before a rather succinct message asked him to confirm this wasn’t a scam, and a long, worrying message spelled out the consequences for lying to a Wistram-run Guild.

Doren hurriedly put in Thorssin’s details and got a few things to write back to Goisedall that would confirm their identities. His second reply came within the hour, and he received sixty-four [Messages] begging to know where they were, if he knew where someone else was, how he had found them, if they needed…

A highly embarrassed Doren decided to offer [Message] services to the people of Mudhole, for whom there was endless demand. He tried just selling them a Scroll of Messages, but the artifact ran out of charge in two hours—half the scrolls malfunctioned and either failed to send or sent incomplete scraps. Like everything else, he had to eventually cap the number of [Messages] he could send at twenty per day and charge a fee.

Purely to keep people from mobbing him. But the sensation of delivering a hand-written letter from the Mage’s Guild, containing a message from Thorssin’s father, that the Drake received in trembling hands—and the contents of which looked like they had been written during an earthquake the words were so shaky—

That made Doren feel like he’d done something. He bore a reply back on the same day and realized that meant one more person was trying to get help to Thorssin and his people. It meant they might make it.

——

Gothica didn’t know how Doren did it. And by ‘it’, she meant work his soul-crushing job which was more horrifying to her than any monster she’d encountered—

And remain so…stupid.

She sort of liked Doren. She did. He had been just some old Human who let her do cool things in his store. Unobjectionable. Then he’d moved into ‘actually useful’ by giving her stuff for her Twilight Sanctuary and turning a blind eye to the occasional broken item and stuff.

Not many people liked her class, so Doren won a Goth Point for never saying a word. But he was a boring man. Also, he laughed weird.

His job was crazy to Gothica. Sit in a store all day and sell things that weren’t that useful? If she had a magical store…

But it was fine. Some people were weird. Look at Calescent. Amazing cook, great fighter. Nice guy. Terrible taste in Elias.

However, Calescent knew it might end badly. He was a Goblin. Doren was just…stupid.

It made Gothica feel bad for him. It wasn’t his fault; he was Human and bald. He’d probably lost some intelligence without the hair there to shelter his head and keep it warm. He just didn’t see how his attempt to ‘help’ people in Mudhole was going to go bad.

Gothica got it. She’d starved before. She’d been a Cave Goblin hiding from Raskghar, used to eating corpses to survive. Fighting and doing bad things to other Goblins just to stay alive.

It made her bitter to see the Human not see anything coming. Watch his dopey face go soft and happy when the Drake kid with fins told him her name.

“Gothica, this is Silppie. She’s selling me glowbugs.”

Gothica glanced over from a table where she was people-watching the idiots in Doren’s store. She still came by regularly, even though Doren’s Outlet sucked.

That was because Gothica could [Shadow Walk] through the walls to the Twilight Sanctuary. Also, Chieftain Rags had told her to observe and report on the conditions in the New Lands. All of it meant that Gothica had to watch Mudhole’s inhabitants entering and exiting, and she was getting progressively less positive as Doren went the other way.

“Hi. Bye.”

She grunted at Silppie, and the girl edged away from her. Doren shot a glare at Gothica. He went over to arrange his displays and murmured to her as she leaned against one wall.

“She’s so young, Gothica. A girl in the New Lands? I can’t believe it. And…”

He nodded to Silppie’s features as the girl tugged a hood over her head. Gothica stopped chewing on a Yellat.

“Yah. Drowned. Very sad, I cry inside. Here.”

She flapped a black handkerchief at Doren, and he got mad.

“That’s merchandise for the Mudhole people—”

Gothica bounced a copper coin off his shoulder, and he sighed and picked it up. She took another Yellat and spotted Silppie stealing.

The girl wasn’t even good at it. She just waited until Doren was bending over to yank something. A canteen, pre-filled with water. Then she hid it in her hood. Gothica waited until the girl edged towards the door.

“She stole. Want me to beat her up?”

“What? No, don’t be insane! It’s fine!”

It’s fine? It was a nice canteen, metal, with leather clasps. Treated to not rust. Gothica didn’t have such a good one. But Doren wasn’t about to chase the girl down and make her give it up.

“She’s just a kid, Gothica. If you see anyone else doing it, you tell me or say something.”

“Bah. She older than me.”

Since this was true, and because he didn’t have a rejoinder, Doren just shook his head and walked off. He was humming. But Gothica…she got more annoyed. She saw where this was going.

——

Silppie became another regular in the store along with Doren’s other ‘friends’. His store was warm, dry, had fresh water, new items on display, and news from the rest of the world. In fact, Doren’s Newspaper Exchange saw more action; the inhabitants of Mudhole would read the newspapers greedily, and Doren began to pay them for information about the New Lands, which he added to a board marked ‘New Lands Information’.

More ways for them to buy the invaluable supplies. A good thing and fascinating for regular visitors to his store. Chieftain Rags appreciated it. But the thing was—

He was losing money. Gothica could tell. She snooped and saw Doren’s ledgers start developing more and more red. He was selling the goods for knock-down prices, and while he did buy bugs and fish—they were more curios for [Alchemists] and research materials.

Mostly, the losses were thefts. Everyone was stealing from Doren. He caught plenty, and after a glare or a word, the people would put back the items, apologizing, claiming they’d forgotten to pay or it was terrible out there, don’t you know, have a heart. They were haggard, hungry, and Gothica would see Doren huff, then forgive them, and they’d buy something or promise to the next time they had something to sell.

…And while they were doing that, six more people behind them would pocket a Yellat, try Doren’s money drawer, or just grab whatever was nearest to them.

Naturally, Doren tried to mitigate it. He began to lock up goods on display, banned people from using his store if they were caught for periods of time, and it did a bit—but everyone stole.

Hwalt, Thorssin, even Laniver. Only Capsha didn’t, possibly because she was the ‘good law person’. Doren got mad at Gothica for not saying more.

“What I supposed to do? Talk every second I in here? You don’t do anything to them.”

“I ban them from my store for a few days! And they’re desperate, Gothica.”

“Yah. That’s why they doing it. You want me to stop them? I know just who.”

The worst offender of the entire damn lot was Silppie. She’d gone from a nervous, skulking girl to realizing that Doren liked her. So she’d come in each day with something to sell, one of the little worthless glowbugs, or just a ‘gift’ for Doren like a rock she’d washed.

Not even a good rock. But he’d smile and take it and not call it out when she grabbed six Yellats. It was making Gothica more and more angry.

——

“You have to say something! You catch her, I punch her. Deal?”

“Gothica! She’s clearly starving! The others are…a problem, yes. I’m having Lieutenant Capsha send someone to help watch the store again. But Silppie’s a girl.”

“She’s a [Thief].”

Gothica was positive the brat had the class by now. Unless stealing from Doren didn’t give the class because he was so willing to let it slide he was just giving it all away. The two argued as Doren checked his inventory, growing redder as he noted how much he’d sold versus how much inventory had been lost.

“I’m practically giving away half of…! Are there that many people stealing?”

“Yup.”

“Why don’t you say something?”

“Dunno. They all got weapons. I as tall as their stomachs? You not paying me?”

Faced with her brilliant arguments, Doren just spluttered. Then he stared at the Yellats.

“…Well, I’ll have to mark them up a bit. That’s all. I can’t keep bleeding gold, and Mudhole does have gold! Two fish instead of one’s actually worth something.”

She saw him thinking out loud.

“I could sell them as research materials to more than just Goblinhome and the Meeting of Tribes.  And that information too. I do deserve to make some profit, don’t I? And if they’re just going to keep stealing—”

The [Goth] was moderately glad to see Doren had some backbone. He began to adjust prices, and she went home, shaking her head. All the other Goblins asked how hanging with the weird Human was, and Gothica complained about Doren. They listened to tales of people obsessed with money and stuff with both envy and dismay.

“Humans. Stupid lives. All about gold. Not like Goblins. You be with us, ey? We do things better.”

One of the Kraken Eater warriors—they were all warriors—tried to sling an arm around her shoulder. He waggled his brows suggestively. Gothica eyed him.

“Not interested.”

“Everyone interested in greatest warriors of the north. I show you. Here, just aiiiiiiieeeee!”

That last bit was the sound of the Kraken Eater trying to follow Gothica and stepping into a big shadow. The shadow dropped him through the floor, and he landed one entire level down, slamming into a trio of Redfang Hobs playing cards in their barracks.

Gothica closed the [Deep Shadow] with a smirk as the other Goblins gave her respectful looks. She didn’t take poop from anyone. Doren, though…

Sometimes, she forgot he was a gentle guy.

——

When Gothica came by the next day, she found Doren’s Outlet was a mess. Lieutenant Capsha and five members of the MSF were present, and Doren was…

…was sitting against one wall, holding a bloody forehead…

Gothica stopped in her tracks. His face was all banged up, and the shop was ransacked.

“What happened?”

“Gothica. I’m f—they mugged me. Someone said they had a new lizard-species outside. Then they got me and—”

They’d taken his keys to the locked up goods. Then looted the coin drawer and everything they could grab. It wasn’t much in the grand scheme of Cormeng’s; they hadn’t known about the rest of the shop.

But they’d done a number on the Human man. He was all shaky, and Capsha insisted on posting a guard—when Gothica asked if she was arresting someone, she gave Gothica a helpless glance.

“Shopkeeper Doren didn’t get a good look at the assailants in the rain. We don’t have investigation Skills. And besides—”

They’d probably either eaten it, sold it, or hidden all they took. Doren had a blank expression as he put a wet rag on his head. Gothica went back to Goblinhome—she demanded a healing scroll from Pawn’s Antinium.

When she came back to give it to him, the man was on his feet, staring at his displays.

“I’m closing for the day. I’ll just…I’ll have a [Cleaner] come in, and one of the [Laborers] can restock.”

“You okay? Here.”

He took the scroll and looked so astonished when she told him it was like a healing potion—it soothed his injuries, at least. But he had a dark expression on his face. He was all hunched up, and he stood there, staring at his feet.

“They kick you a lot?”

“…Not much. They weren’t that rough with me. Once they got me on the ground—I was going to cast a spell, but the shop dragged me inside. And I got water in my component pouch.”

Oh, his weird magic. All drawbacks according to him. Gothica bit her lip. She knew Doren was no fighter, so she didn’t say anything mean or true about how he should be more careful. Doren was saying it himself.

“Stupid. I thought it was off when they said it was too big to haul inside. I—they didn’t want to hurt me. The store has to re-open, right?”

He wore a bitter smile, and Gothica anxiously nodded.

“That right. You important. So…you good?”

The old man said not a word for a long while. Then he whispered.

“I don’t know what happened to my shop guard. They just ran off. There were lots of them, but they didn’t even put up a—it took a while before Capsha and the MSF got here. They hit me on the head, and I was on the floor so—it had to have been twenty minutes? Thirty?”

Damn. He really was old. Someone kicked Gothica down and she was out for, what, ten minutes at most even if they stomped her. But that wasn’t what made Doren look so small. He just muttered.

“They all saw it. All the people walking by. I swore I saw Thorssin, and I was asking for help—there were nine of them. Too many to fight.”

“Right…yeah, that tough.”

Doren stared at the ground, at the muddy tracks in his shop.

“Then they left. And you know what? Silppie came in. She was watching. And then she—she—”

His voice broke a bit.

“She came in, grabbed all the food she could, and ran out. She thought I was unconscious. Maybe she called for the MSF. Maybe.”

Ah. Gothica saw it, then. Doren kept muttering.

“They all did. Just walked in, saw what they could steal. Rikka was the first person to even try and see if I was alright. The rest of them left me there.”

What did you expect? The [Goth] kept still as Doren gazed at his feet. She didn’t know what to say, so she patted his arm repeatedly.

“They hungry. That what they do.”

She waited, but Doren’s voice was just cold now.

“I see.”

——

Gothica came back regularly over the next few days and stayed as long as the store was open. No one made trouble; the MSF put a guard outside the shop, and Gothica herself could have probably dealt with any number of idiots.

But there was a change, and it was in Doren. The amiable, mild shopkeeper transformed overnight. Not hugely, as if he grew horns and started breathing fire. He changed as much as Doren changed, so he was still quiet, still puttered about and fussed over his shop.

He just got—meaner.

Prices quadrupled overnight. Suddenly, everything was locked in boxes, and if you were caught, it was a lifetime ban or you paid triple what it was worth on the spot. Doren didn’t sit there giving people the stink-eye over the counter. But he just lost something.

Sympathy, perhaps. He got more brusque, would cut off stories about how hard the day was and ask, pointedly, if someone was selling or buying and if not, there were other customers. Pieces of fish no longer were worth anything. Bugs had better be a jar’s worth or what was he supposed to do, sell a single gnat?

No ‘new fish’ fees. Unless they were actually new—and Mudhole had found most species—no deal. Thorssin’s group were not being re-hired for their jobs, and Gothica heard Doren flatly turning the Drake down.

“Doren, listen. I know Kalpe ran, but it was nine people. He went to get us and the MSF! Just give us another chance.”

“I’m not in the market for another [Guard] right now, Thorssin. Thank you—the MSF is doing a fine job.”

“But we need work!”

Doren glanced down at his counter.

“That’s a shame. But I’m sure you can spend your time fishing or getting something to trade? I do have other guests, Thorssin. I’m not running a charity here.”

The Drake backed up, seeming offended, upset. He stormed out, and Gothica nodded. All of this was good. He had to be tougher, not let them walk all over him.

…So why did her stomach hurt when she saw it? It reminded Gothica of another place. The Wandering Inn. She saw Doren checking his ledger, nodding at the numbers, and they were back to being black. He was making money, and there were fewer people in his shop here just to steal when his back was turned.

But it felt less nice. He smiled less. And he had a suspicious look in his gaze.

It was Silppie, that brat, again, that was the breaking point. She certainly noticed the change in Doren’s shop. Accordingly, the girl came by with more gifts for Doren, which he still accepted. She’d also come in with a new problem each day.

A cough or she’d be drenched in water after falling into the boardwalk. Or she’d have a horrible cut that looked self-inflicted and pretty damn small to Gothica. Doren would listen to her whisper to him.

“And how was your day, Silppie?”

“N-not good, Shopkeeper Doren. I only had half a mudfish today.”

“Only half? How terrible. Well, do you have anything to sell? Maybe we can trade you for some new jerky. Fresh, from the Gnoll plains.”

He still gave her discounts, letting her sell whatever she’d found for more than it was worth. But Doren’s patience, which had been as infinite as the pillows in Chieftain Rags’ beds, was suddenly running out.

Silppie’s light fingers had been easier before he had everything locked up. Now, she had to cause a distraction or remark on something outside the window before grabbing a single Yellat. He noticed.

Of course he did. Only the kid was so stupid to think she was clever. And each time she did it, Gothica saw Doren’s shoulders hunch a bit more. He got a bit madder. Just a tiny bit, like someone heating a kettle, but there was no relief valve. It built and built until the day Silppie was loitering around in the store.

“Shopkeeper, Merchant Lavroisse with another [Message]. Do you have any replies?”

Laniver came in with more correspondence from the [Merchant], and Doren, sighing, walked over to a little series of locked shelves where he had correspondence from the outside world. Gothica, at her table, watched. She saw Silppie glance around, eye her, then duck down, creeping towards his counter.

“I wouldn’t.”

Gothica’s mutter made the girl freeze, and she glanced over her shoulder. But the [Goth] was staring out a window, so the Drake Drowned girl hesitated, peered at Doren…he was arguing with Laniver about some letter from the Merchant’s Guild. So Silppie reached up and…

Doren’s old coin drawer behind his counter made a soft thunking sound when opened. But it was quiet enough and impossible to see the girl. But the fifth coin she took was heavier than she thought. The gold coin chinked quietly, and Doren’s head snapped up.

“Silppie!”

He shouted, and the girl leapt up, smacked her head with a cry on the till, and ran for it. Gothica conjured some shadows and tripped her; she went tumbling headfirst on her way to the door, spilling the gold and silver coins she’d taken, and then she was caught. The girl looked up, saw Laniver, Doren, and Gothica staring down at her.

Then she burst into tears and began wailing.

——

Lieutenant Capsha came in ten minutes. Ten minutes was long enough for Silppie to explain that she had just been looking at the coins because they were so beautiful. And she’d only picked one up to see!

But also she hadn’t had anything to eat today. And she’d been told to steal them and that she wouldn’t get food if she didn’t.

Also—she thought they were bronze coins, not gold!

Kids. Any good Goblin child would have at least stuck to one lie, but Silppie still thought she could cry her way out of this one. At least, with Doren.

His face was so…blank. He was quiet, too, which encouraged the girl. Hwalt, Thorssin, most of the adults in Mudhome would shout or roar, quick to put hands on a weapon or clench a fist, but Doren just seemed to draw in on himself. When Capsha got most of what had happened—and it was a thirty second explanation, really—she turned to him.

“She is a girl, Shopkeeper. Gold, though…would you like me to search her to make sure there’s nothing else on her? I imagine a ban from the shop’s in order?”

“No, please! I’ll be good! It was only once!”

That appeal from Silppie, and the widest eyes she could muster—that was when Doren snapped. Gothica saw it. His head rose.

“I’m afraid, Lieutenant Capsha, that this has been a recurring issue. Young Miss Silppie has stolen from my shop a number of times. This is the most egregious instance.”

The girl froze as Capsha darted a glower at her. The Drake exhaled.

“I see. Well then…we have stockades. The MSF lashes anyone for theft or worse. I could have her up in there for a few hours.”

“That—that might be for the best, Lieutenant. And a ban, of course.”

It wasn’t a hard punishment. Once Gothica figured out what stockades were, of course. But the girl began sobbing and pleading—more for losing access to Doren’s shop than anything. He watched her go as Capsha marched her out into the rain, and Laniver awkwardly excused himself.

“Terrible business, Shopkeeper Doren. Merchant Lavroisse expresses his sympathies.”

“He does, does he?”

Doren was staring out the window as the two marched into the rain. Laniver nodded, fiddling with his letters.

“Thefts—the most common thing in camp. Keeping Merchant Lavroisse’s goods secure is the hardest task, even with his loyal employees. But a bleeding heart means everyone is out of food in the end. The children learn to steal after watching the adults. One has to have consequences; it’ll straighten them out, one hopes.”

“Yes. Yes, I hope it will. I’m…well, thank you, Laniver.”

The young man excused himself at the door, but he walked slowly, weighed down by more than his letters. He paused by the doorway.

“It was a kind attempt, Master Doren. You gave her more chances than I would have, in your place.”

Doren blinked, surprised Laniver knew…as if everyone hadn’t seen him turning a blind eye. Laniver nodded again.

“It’s decency like that which we left behind on Terandria’s shores. Believe it or not, but Merchant Lavroisse himself would give to the odd [Beggar], though he often accompanied it with a discussion on how you got back on your feet. Here, though—it just doesn’t work, does it?”

“No. No…it does not.”

The two men regarded each other, and Laniver opened the door, stepped into the rain while shielding the letters, and Doren went back to sit behind his counters. He gazed at the coins that had been recovered. Moving them around on the table.

Everyone forgot Gothica was there. The [Goth] walked forwards, then dropped the aura that kept her from sight and mind.

“One gold, four silvers. Pretty cheap. You sure you don’t want a finger?”

He jerked, nearly knocking the coins.

“What—Gothica?”

“Finger more permanent. Stocks? Psh. Easy. She remember finger and not do it again.”

“Is—is that what Goblins do?”

He gave her one of those horrified ‘I am better than you savages’ looks. The first one he’d given Gothica, actually. She ignored it as she pulled herself up and sat on his counter.

“Who, us? Nah, we so barbaric we not even do stocks. Drakes, Drakes do jail, hands, fingers—we just beat up Goblins. That all.”

“So they keep doing it again, no doubt. You have to have law and order. Make examples.”

Doren muttered down at his counter. Gothica smiled at him.

“Yah. Take a finger. Won’t stop them, but they have only nine fingers. Steal one less coin.”

The man glanced up.

“Of course it stops them. They’ve lost a finger.”

“Sure. Still hungry. Just harder. Next time they lose two. Then hand. Then they die fast because easy to notice missing hand, also one less hand to steal with.”

It was all logical to Gothica as she waved her right hand at Doren. He turned away abruptly.

“I can’t have her keep stealing from me! You saw it! You told me how many people were stealing. Well—well, I’ve fixed that. I’m making a profit.”

“Yah.”

“I tried to give them everything, and they just grabbed. If they were reasonable, I could ignore the odd Yellat. But they just had to hold me up, grab everything they could, lie to my face and spin tall tales—”

He was fumbling the coins into the drawer, mad. Gothica gazed at Doren, and she liked him. She did. He was one of the few Humans she had any time for…which was why she didn’t like this.

She liked him less today. So she spoke with that power of [Goths] to say the things no one polite said, to say the things you didn’t want to hear.

[Biting Sarcasm].

“Yeah. How dare they be hungry? How dare they not appreciate you being a [Hero]? It so hard to sell Yellats for money to people in the New Lands. Why can’t starving people be more classy?”

The Skill hit Doren between the shoulder blades as he turned away. He froze up, then swung back to Gothica, and then his face tensed. Like an angry bloodhound. His jowls swung as he snapped back.

“I’m not blind! I did all this—all of it—to help them! I didn’t have to do anything for Thorssin! He came in, and no one would help him! Not the Gnolls, not the Goblins—me! I did that!”

“You did.”

“I did! So don’t you dare tell me I didn’t try my best! I bled for it! They beat me up and stole everything, and no one lifted a hand! They just joined in!”

He pointed at his forehead, and she nodded.

“You did that, and no one else did.”

“Yes. Exactly. So…what’s your point?”

He whispered at her, trying to keep angry, but Doren wasn’t good at shouting, and that was all he had. Gothica just sat there.

“It pretty hard. I not want to do it. These people suck. Silppie suck. She not cute. Just slimy. Thorssin suck.”

“He’s a greedy Drake. After all I’ve done, he lectures me about—and he tries to hint. Rikka is better, but she tries to chum me up too. Hwalt pretends we’re practically drinking buddies and tries to get me drunk. Laniver, Capsha—not a one’s honest.”

“Nope. Don’t forget Ethirne.”

“Who’s that?”

He grew distracted a second, and Gothica described her.

“The Dullahan? Comes in, does weaving baskets. Can’t sell much. Stole big bread once, and you banned her?”

“Right…what about her?”

“Thief.”

“Yes, exactly! All of them!”

“So bad. Lost her best friend to a crocodile last month. Ungrateful.”

Doren halted.

“—She did?”

Gothica smiled bleakly.

“Very funny story. They walking on the boardwalk, and crocodile jumps them. Is okay—they dodge. But one of their heads falls off. Into the water. Crocodile gets that and…”

Doren went white. Gothica shrugged.

“Didn’t get body, but Dullahan dead.”

“Dead gods, Gothica! What’s funny about that?”

“Goblin humor. You not get it.”

Actually, even Goblins would have called that dark and upsetting. But Gothica just smiled. Doren’s hands trembled as he wiped at his forehead.

“This place. This place is so damned terrible. That’s…that’s horrific. I had no notion Dullahans—they must need to secure their heads. Don’t they have locking mechanisms?”

“Dunno. Maybe theirs broke.”

“You can buy them from Pallass, probably. A Dullahan would know.”

He was staring past her, but Gothica just laughed.

“Why bother? She banned from your stop, and she can’t afford that.”

“No, but if it’s the difference between life and death, Gothica—!”

Angry again. He rounded on her, and the Goth cupped her chin in her hands and gazed at him. Her crimson eyes glowed in the darkness.

“Can’t have bleeding hearts, Doren. You heard Laniver. You get her head-securing thing and they all want one.”

“Well—maybe the Dullahans should get one!”

“Even if they can’t afford it?”

“If they’re going to die, Gothica, then yes!”

He shouted at her, and she tilted her head. Lay sideways on the counter as he clenched his fists, eyes bright. A softhearted man. Gothica murmured.

“But Doren…that everyone. They all like that. You blind?”

Then the red-faced, shouting man stopped. He gazed at her, at his shop, and then out the window again, and the miserable people hurrying in the ever-present rain and fog…

What did he see?

She knew what she saw. Things that sucked so much. Somehow, perhaps, she felt like what Doren had seen had shifted over the course of running his store. Maybe they’d started looking like annoying customers. But now he saw it again, and Doren’s face fell.

His hands unclenched, and he sat down hard. Missed his stool, sat on the ground. She peered over the counter as he rubbed at his face.

“But I’ve been…I can’t just give it all away. I can’t. They’re not—they don’t make it easy!”

“No, they don’t.”

The [Goth] spoke down to the bald, older [Innkeeper] with a worse laugh. She murmured.

“I don’t know how you do it. I can’t.”

Doren gazed up at her wretchedly. Tears in those huge, grey eyes. He gazed around his shop. At the coins on his counter, then whispered.

“I’m…a fool, Gothica.”

At last, she smiled at him, lying there, like a cat, on his counters.

“Yup. But that why I like you.”

——

The next day, Gothica came back to the store and saw it had changed again. Once more, a Doren change.

The bins that locked away goods were still there. He still had a guard from the MSF around. But a few of the displays were open to browse, and Doren had hung a sign in the window.

Past offenders welcome to re-enter Doren’s Outlet. Thefts will be recorded. Items can be bought on account; please inquire within.

Account? She walked over to her regular seat and saw Doren explaining the concept to a group of Dullahans eying some neck-fasteners you could clip onto your armor. A kind of metal choker, or maybe gorget, that locked into place.

It looked expensive, so the apprehensive Dullahans were eying their goods, but Doren was smiling.

“I’m aware funding is…tight. So I’m willing to open an account. I may have fish or other products I need. If you’re unable to purchase an item, you can buy something, and we’ll record the purchase. Then you can pay it off.”

“I see. A loan.”

“Not one with interest! More like deferred payments. And in this case, the Dullahans who sold me these were willing to cover half the cost already…”

Laniver and Capsha were among the people who were listening to the new rules. Laniver was shaking his head; it was another new addition in the line of stupid decisions Doren had made, Gothica concluded.

How many people here would pay off something like that? Hwalt was already trying to figure out how much he could get on account, and she was sure Doren would have to put a limit per person and make them pay it off without taking more.

Merchant Lavroisse would lose any respect he’d gotten for Doren when heard about this. So…why was Laniver smiling?

Perhaps it was the shy girl who Capsha was eying severely, who was holding her claws behind her back. Or the other former thieves, which was everyone, who were aware Doren was watching them, and eying the MSF guard.

Gothica just smiled as she watched Doren treating with them. He began opening accounts, selling goods to his customers, but with a twist.

“And you need this canteen because…?”

“Well, it’s just a damn useful thing!”

“Don’t you have a canteen, Hwalt? I’m not running a charity here! I can sell you the Yellats, but I’ll want one of those multi-eyed fish in return. I know you’re good for that.”

The spluttering man watched the canteen vanish from his shopping cart. But he did walk away with a sizable meal. And there, Gothica saw it.

Doren wasn’t an idiot. He resented people stealing from him and treating him like he was a dolt. Nor were most of the thefts…logical. People were just getting whatever they could. If you wanted to take out a fancy new shovel on account, he’d turn you down.

If you told him it’d help you dig and get work, that might work. Just needing food worked. It also meant lying to Doren was harder; if you did, you’d better know what you’d lied about yesterday or show him that fish you’d caught with the line and hooks he sold you.

A small change, but it meant when the shy little girl came up to his counter and apologized, Doren leaned over and gave Silppie a stern look.

“I hope you’ve learned a lesson about stealing, Miss Silppie?”

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Then we can see what you need on account—I’m still in the market for glowbugs if you can get enough. Here.”

He passed her something. She blinked at a cracker wrapped in a leaf, then saw Doren pouring something.

“What’s that?”

“Tea. I’m in the mood for it, and the place where I live has excellent tea for some reason. Gothica, do you want any?”

“Sure, sure. Give crackers, old guy.”

She let herself be lured over by the power of tea and crackers, and they watched Silppie stuff her face. Then hesitate and ask if she could bring some crackers to her group. Doren allowed that yes, she might, thank you for asking.

“What’s the difference between this and stealing?”

Gothica whispered to Doren as Silppie slipped from her chair and ran out the door, pausing to call out thanks. Doren sat with her.

“I’m the one choosing.”

She grinned at that. Then Doren turned to the next guest in line, Thorssin.

“What was that about your roof leaking all the time, Thorssin? Tell me about it. I’ve been thinking I could stock some roofing materials, but do you need shingles or would they blow off? Roofing tar? If it rains all the time…”

He was back in business again, and for more than before. Gothica decided he really was bad at business. Just like her other favorite Human.

No, wait, Kevin was great at business. She meant Erin. There was just one thing left to do, and it hurt Gothica’s stomach. But she had to do it, right? Someone had to tell him.

Just not her.

——

People noticed, of course. Doren was not exactly a master-class spymaster. Sure, Lady Rie could understand him buying food and mundane goods.

But when Cormeng’s failed to materialize in the Unseen Empire on more than a few occasions and people reported the odd entryway…and moreover, when he started buying roofing tar and tiles and odd cures and bug nets?

Let alone when he started sending [Messages] about people in the New Lands from the Mage’s Guild, she realized something was up. [Mages] talked, and they were hardly so professional as people liked to imagine, especially when you had Unseen Empire-loyalists in the Mage’s Guild.

The Gnolls kept Doren’s secret, and the Goblins did too, but after several weeks, more than one intelligence expert was beginning to put together ‘Doren’s Outlet’ with ‘Cormeng’s’. The only thing that had taken them so long was that no one had bothered to write down Doren’s name as the owner of the magical store.

Consequences were coming for Doren. When they arrived, well…

——

Doren was pondering an orb in Cormeng’s shop. A scrying orb, to be precise. He didn’t sell that many magical items. None to the New Lands, but he’d noticed something odd.

“Dead.”

The song crystals too. That was what had made him take notice; the song crystal he liked to play from the Singer of Terandria was out of magic. The runework was good; he took care of it. But the mana was gone.

“…Strange. But I can—”

Doren cast the basic sight charm that Cormeng had invented. He put some dust on his eyes, blinked, and swore; he could see magic…a glowfly was buzzing on the far wall. He went over to catch it, then checked the scrying orb and song crystals. Most were almost dead. A few had a bit of magic left, but…

“This must be the New Lands drain effect. Damn.”

That was a good amount of gold he’d lost. He could pay an [Enchanter] and recoup, and he wasn’t that mad, but it was mystifying.

“I can cast magic. My reagents are fine. But the magic…”

Why the hell was that? Doren scratched his head and tried another spell Cormeng had invented. He conjured a little platform of light, stood on it, stepped off it…it was a mobile stepstool and relatively cheap. He used it when he couldn’t be bothered to get a physical one.

If the mana drain were getting into Cormeng’s…but the Well Room said they weren’t losing mana. So the mana drain was in Cormeng’s, but the shop was made so well even the New Lands couldn’t drain it?

“That can’t be right. The Adventurer’s Haven was said to lose magical power. And that was made by a Level 50 [Wizard]. So why…?”

The answer was in Cormeng’s journals. It always was. Doren had time today; he’d had the [Goths] this morning, so he’d decided to do Mudhole that evening. He went into the Trophy Room and sorted through the nearly-organized journals.

It took him a bit; Cormeng had written his own entries for himself, but Doren had a good memory since he’d had to read this so much, and he’d put pieces of colored paper to help him find what he wanted. He read.

“…punched a Mothbear…aha. Here it is. ‘Reagents possess a curious internal magical resistance of their own, similar to that of [Mages] or higher-quality magical materials. I suspect living creatures of magical persuasion generate their own magical resistance. Ironically, the Levellers lack for this natural protection whereas we few Deniers seem more resistant by nature. Is this some handicap? Or is the explosive growth of mana wells unnatural? Either way, most [Mages] care little about magical resistance beyond whether they can resist spells. I have no one to talk to! But if even unprocessed alchemical reagents can retain magic, why should I mix up a potion that loses efficacity? I should just cast from reagent-form…’”

Doren’s head lifted slowly, and he stared at the annoying, obsessive bags of reagents that he had prepared for Cormeng’s spells. He’d always thought it was a damned annoying way of casting. You had to mix and match the components, it was so peculiar about ratios, and the cost!

…But it meant even without a mana well, he, Doren, could cast magic. And, he realized…some of these bags of reagents had been prepared years ago.

The one he’d used to hit that [Bounty Hunter]? It had fired off like it had just been made, and he’d had to have it sitting here for over thirteen years.

Common enchantments died after ten at best! Was…was that Cormeng’s secret?

“He built this shop based on Fraerling standards. No mana leakage, suppression—he couldn’t have made it better than Larracel the Haven, could he?”

What a thought! A Level 50 [Wizard]…

But they were so arrogant. Cormeng was always ranting about how they didn’t respect anything that didn’t do magic their way. Shortcuts, he called them.

Doren was licking his lips suddenly. His eyes flicked to the little bag of components he prepared for the light step spell. That one wasn’t hard at all. Cormeng was very strict about which reagents you could use, but he’d made most of his spells to be accessible because getting high-level reagents was too difficult to source. You had to set up a glyph, memorize the activation chant, but it was only eight words in his magic-language and took a four-component bag.

“Does…does that mean if I had someone inscribe a rune in Mudhole…?”

He had to test this out. Suddenly, Doren was fumbling to write out instructions. But who? Thorssin? He wasn’t always cautious. Hwalt, no. But then—he could be more careful when he knew he had something to gain.

I can’t trust them. Laniver, Capsha…Rikka? Or what about Silppie?

She was a good girl. Who paid attention to kids? And it was so damn dangerous there. Then Doren was rifling through Cormeng’s spellbook.

There were plenty of spells that Doren never cast. Combat spells. It wasn’t like Doren had ever mastered Cormeng’s magic; it was so damn complex, and Cormeng had been a genius. Doren was more of a copycat. But if he just—

He was so busy and excited that when he heard the ding of a bell on the counter ringing he groaned. He should have turned the damn door off!

“So sorry, I’m not really looking to buy today. If you have something to purchase, I can run the transaction now—”

And there they were. Doren slowed as he entered his shop, and the consequences turned their heads to him. How they’d found him, he didn’t know. They were just…here.

A [Knight] in golden armor stood behind a red-haired [Princess], and a pair of girls, one a white Gnoll, the other a girl in a rainbow outfit, were standing in front of his counter. Behind them was Gothica, who waved at Doren. The man froze.

He recognized Mrsha and Nanette. As for the [Princess] and [Knight]—well, they just stood out on their own. Something was wrong with the young woman’s face. It was slightly cracked. But she was peering around Cormeng’s.

“Ah. Shopkeeper Doren. Good evening. I am Lyonette du Marquin, owner of The Wandering Inn. A former employee of my establishment told me that it might behoove me to seek you out. I do apologize for the intrusion.”

Lyonette du Marquin bowed to him, and he stared at Mrsha the Great and Terrible, Nanette the Death of Fashion, and Ser Dalimont the Shiny.

Lyonette just kept smiling as he stuttered.

“You’re—you’re from—she’s gone. I mean, that is, I haven’t had anyone put anything in my store! Why are you here? Gothica?”

The [Goth] was hiding behind Lyonette. She muttered.

“Had to get people with better words. So you know.”

Lyonette glanced at Gothica, for once not annoyed or exasperated. She studied Doren, and he realized he had mud on his boots. His first two rooms were a mess…most people that didn’t know the score came in and just walked out. Her eyes roamed over him, and she seemed to see something that made her grimace. In sadness. Nostalgia?

“I wasn’t sure if I should do this. I don’t know the words, Gothica. I told you…I’m not her. But I can see I must say something. Shopkeeper Doren, may I speak to you as someone who runs an establishment somewhat like yours?”

He didn’t get what she meant and smiled weakly.

“Of course. I’m—I’m not as adverse to interesting company as last time. Are you here to look around? Come in; Gothica knows where the tea is. And snacks. Your door is marvelous. My shop travels, but it’s not so useful. Why, if I could teleport people…”

Lyonette forestalled him as he hobbled over to the Twilight Sanctum.

“I don’t mean in the sense of our establishments moving, Master Doren. Or just that, rather. I mean…yours is a place making a difference. I can see it, even if Gothica hadn’t told me. I don’t wish to stop you. But I wish to speak as someone who’s seen where this leads, if I may?”

Confused, he turned around. Then he realized she was gazing at him with a mix of pity and envy. Sadness and appreciation. Like Shaman Theikha. She gestured.

“Perhaps some tea would be good after all. Girls?”

——

The Thronebearer poured, and Mrsha and Nanette roamed around with Gothica, listening, as Lyonette talked with Doren. She studied the black tea in her black cup and didn’t beat around the bush long.

“Master Doren, I know your shop is accessing the New Lands.”

“Did Gothica say—?”

He shot up in alarm. She’d promised. Lyonette just studied him.

“No, my spies ratified it. Your name is moving across the Walled Cities, and Wistram has been trying to scry your store. Unsuccessfully, I think. It is impossible to keep a secret like this. Emperor Godart is either aware or will be, soon. I rather suspect he’d like to know what’s going on, but he’s probably wary of chasing you away.”

Oh no. He felt a prickle run down his back. An [Emperor], the Walled Cities? The worst-case scenario.

“But I haven’t been doing anything wrong! I’ve been helping! Manus’ people and everyone else!”

He protested. Lyonette nodded slowly.

“Gothica’s told me, Master Doren. And I have no objection to that. That—that isn’t my warning, not truly. You’re delivering food and goods to the people in the New Lands, aren’t you? Using your shop like we use our door.”

She figured out what he was doing in an instant. Doren spluttered.

“How—? Did Gothica—?”

“She’s been very close-lipped, actually. She just insisted we talk to you. We didn’t take it seriously until she tossed Xinthe out a window.”

Ser Dalimont murmured. Doren blinked.

“But then how—?”

“It’s what Erin would have done. I don’t have to see to guess. Or be close enough. Master Doren, I’m not here to stop you. I approve. Dead gods, but I approve. If there were only more people like you, Ser Normen and his Order of Solstice wouldn’t go alone, or Garry or—?”

Lyonette’s eyes were shining. Her approval made Doren feel funny. Like he was a boy again, being praised for a good deed and not being embarrassed for it. He began to smile, and then she looked at him, took a breath, and spoke.

“But I must warn you that you will not save them all. You will try. You must try. I know that too. But you will try and fail. Some will die, and it will destroy you. You cannot save them all. Your store cannot shield them. It will break in two when the storm hits, and you have to let them brave it. With everything you have, but if you try to hold that door, something will come through it and kill you.”

It was such a strange sensation. She was just saying words. Almost arrogance, presumptuous words about hypotheticals, and he brushed them off as he blinked at her. Then he rubbed at his chest.

Realized he was leaking. Like she’d shot him, and he hadn’t felt how much damage they’d done. Doren opened his mouth, closed it, put down the teacup so hard it slopped on the table, and rose.

“Is that a threat—?”

He was trembling. Almost ready to take on the [Knight] with Cormeng’s ejections spells. Like he wanted to be swung at because that would hurt less than—Lyonette didn’t move.

“No, Doren. I’m just telling you what will happen. I know it’s hard.”

“You, you’re being entirely rude. You don’t know what I’m…I’m helping. Did Theikha put you up to this? You sound like her. You have no idea, no idea at all. I’m giving out thousands of Yellats a day! And it’s profitable! It’s working! Why—why, I could give them magic next.”

He let that slip he was so rattled. Ser Dalimont’s head snapped up, and Nanette whirled. Mrsha just leaned on a staff she’d found like some kind of hermit-frog. Waiting. She unnerved him the most. Doren turned.

“Rescuers are coming. Any day now. And if they don’t? I can feed them until they’re out. There’s only crocodiles about. I’m…how dare you?”

He was trembling. He wanted to hit her. But Lyonette just put her cup down.

“Doren…”

“Don’t talk like you know me. Everyone’s telling me not to do it, that I’ll get hurt. Well, did it ever occur to you it doesn’t matter if I’m hurt? I want to make a difference. I’m helping them, and I’ve never been important before. You can’t stop me.”

“I’m not trying to stop you.”

“Then what? Why are you telling me it’ll all come crashing down?”

He snarled at her, and the [Princess] stared past him a moment. At the sky falling. Her voice was slow, deliberate, and chilled him.

“I don’t know how. It could be small. It could be just one. It could be months from now, years, even. But you can’t save them, Doren. You can try. We should try. But I…”

She rubbed at her face. Rubbed at her eyes. Turned.

“It’s no use. Mrsha, sweetie. What am I supposed to say? Can you imagine anything working on her? What do I say to her? To Erin?”

Erin Solstice? Doren’s clenched fists stopped waving. He hesitated, went cold, and the little Gnoll girl walked over. She held up a card.

Show him the cost, Mom. You’ve paid it.

Lyonette blinked, then touched at her face. She wiped, delicately, and winced, and he saw those faint cracks turn redder. Recoiled as it seemed her skin was splitting.

“What’s—”

The [Princess] gestured at her skin as she met his eyes.

“A piece of the cost. The smallest piece. You can’t even see the true ones. The small costs are on her skin. Branded there. I don’t dare shoulder the larger ones. And Doren—there are statues. So many statues. That’s what hurts her the most. She’d do it all again, I know. I am not going to stop you. I am just…warning you.”

She took a shuddering breath, then focused, and he felt like the air glowed around her. Saw her grow focused, even intense, as she put the grief aside.

“You need an escape route. For yourself, for them. You need security. Whatever you have—this shop? It’s not enough. You need walls, and food rations, and there are healing scrolls in the Free Hive you should buy. You are selling splendid things to the people. Well and good. Sell them more and keep just as much for yourself. You can’t stock magic?”

She was pacing around his shop, and she went from warning of armageddon to…Lyonette was murmuring.

“You don’t sell weapons. Do you have one?”

“Weapons? I don’t—I have some defensive spells. But I don’t stock weapons! I’m not an armory!”

She snapped her fingers.

“Dalimont, have someone go to Master Pelt’s and see what he’s selling. Something non-magical that won’t rust. He knows what that is. The same with armor. Scrolls, armor—what else might they need that isn’t here?”

“Maps, Lyonette? Waterproof vellum and ink?”

The [Princess] spun and pointed at the young [Witch].

“Maps. Thank you, Nanette!”

And bug repellent. I hate those things. Don’t they have leeches? Gaarh Marsh would sell that.

Mrsha added in and Doren’s head spun. Bug repellent? Anti-leech stuff? Everyone complained about them. Why hadn’t he thought about—

“I—I could get that.”

“Good. We don’t need to tell you that. But this layout…”

Lyonette stood in the rooms outside of his shop and shook her head. She peered down the branching hallways.

“Can you move where the rooms are?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d arrange them in a long line. If you had to. There’s only one exit—damn. But if you needed to slow someone…”

She was tracing a path outwards, and Ser Dalimont spoke.

“A fortress with only one exit is a coffin. But if it must be done, then you would put two rooms here and here—”

He gestured.

“—To flank with. Interspersed checkpoints.”

They were telling him to re-organize his shop. Like it was a series of trap rooms? A dungeon?

It wasn’t impossible to do that. But this was Cormeng’s, not the Outlet! Doren was protesting how much work this was, even if he hired [Laborers], when Lyonette swung around.

“That is my advice, Master Doren. It may be pointless. It may be unneeded—until it is not. And when that moment comes, every scrap, every little thing you did, you will wish you had done more. You can’t make fake walls and add in arrow slits, can you? Also, I have something you might consider stocking more of. We don’t have as many of these anymore; someone else is harvesting the, er, ingredients. But a few of these—carefully placed—wouldn’t go amiss. Dead gods, Numbtongue was right.”

She grew sad for some reason, then handed him a jar of glowing green—Doren nearly dropped it when she told him what it was.

She and her two daughters kept moving through the store, mentioning where he might move furniture, adjust the layout, buy things that Mudhome could need. Not just building materials for homes. Had he considered stocking the supplies to make a boat?

Or just selling a small boat and oars? Some of it sounded insane, like putting up enchanted floor traps. What if he activated them? [Mages] had to maintain their magic! Yet the [Princess] just spoke until she was hoarse and needed to sit, and then she gazed at him.

“It is just advice, unsolicited, I know. From an inn to a lovely shop. Be ready. And please, don’t die.”

Then she rose and took his hands, and Nanette tried to pay for a lantern shaped like a face, and Gothica was bugging them to give him food from the inn, souvenirs, an acid jar…and he kept waiting for the next part.

Until he realized that was all she’d come to say.

A warning meant with best intentions. From a woman who clearly thought she could see the future written in ink.

When she was gone, Doren turned to Gothica and asked her why she had done it. She traced her claw on his counter.

“Because. Is good to help. Even stupid kids.”

“But that woman—that [Princess] came in here spouting disastrous talk. As if I were doomed to be attacked.”

Gothica shrugged.

“Maybe you not. Maybe miracles happen. But maybe someone comes back and hits you again and I not here. Maybe…”

She trailed off. There was so much contained in that word. Gothica swallowed.

“I don’t know how to say it. She does. That all. You do small good things, sometimes small bad things happen. But you doing bigger good things. So…”

“Bigger bad things happen? Gothica, I’m just a shopkeeper. Mudhole is beyond me. There are more important people there than me. Lavroisse, the MSF—”

He tried to laugh it off, and she looked at him clearly.

“Yeah. But you the only one doing big good things. So when the bad thing happen—you’ll be there. You too nice to run away like a smart person.”

He had nothing to say to that. Nothing but the protest that of course he wouldn’t be a fool. That he couldn’t stop whatever this hypothetical bad thing was, anyways. But she was right.

He couldn’t close his door on Mudhole. So that promise she and Lyonette spoke of. The what-if, the maybe…

It shook him, left him sleepless. Yet what could he do?

Turn away?

He kept the shop open because he had not the heartlessness to turn his back on them. He could not. But because of that, because of Theikha’s warning, he was gifted with that curse of foresight. The power of prophecy.

He saw it coming and clung to the mast of the ship all the way down.

Author’s Note:

And here we are. Let me tell you a bit about my vacation while I tell you about a new food crime and getting back to work.

Firstly, I went on a trip during my vacation. Not to bury my Grandfather…we’re holding a ceremony next year. It’s hard to get family together, and I know that it’s different in other countries, but the funeral wasn’t something I had to be there for. Instead I went to another city.

I was in a big city for a bit, and the food there…is better than my city’s. That’s all I’ll say. I’m still upset. Every damn restaurant in a giant multicultural city with millions of people is really nice and has better food.

It was a relaxing, fun break. Whereupon I went home with a gift: a shadowloaf bread someone had made in the style of Erin Solstice. So black dough and chocolate within to give it that look and interesting texture.

I…may…

Have turned it into a sandwich with mayonnaise, cheese, lunch meat, and then microwaved it for food. Which apparently horrified the person who gave it to me when I recounted this story, and only one person I’ve told this story to has had my back that sweet and savory went together. It was bread. It was a sandwich. These things…these things go together. I was hungry!

Anyways, the rest of my break was largely restful. I saw Book 2 in stores, and I was preparing for the end of my break when I caught a mild fever. Alas, it threw some plans out of whack, so I wrote this chapter instead of tackling a harder one. Things happened, and now it’s a big chapter.

But I also released my 2-1-1 update plan, so here’s what we’re doing. The next half of this chapter is coming out Tuesday.

Like the old days. It’s a big, big chapter, but since it’s the first one back, I didn’t want to spread it out over the entire month’s worth of updates. The next chapter I’ll try to cut in the same pattern. That means it’ll be four updates, Saturday, Tuesday, Saturday, Tuesday.

Experimentation. New schedule, same pirateaba but new and fresh words, hopefully. I haven’t committed any more food crimes that I know of since and I feel refreshed, if slightly under the weather still. Travel does that to you. Hope you had a good break and here’s to more writing. I hope you like Doren’s chapter. It’s very…

Halloween themed. Especially Part 2. Look forwards to it.

—pirateaba

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