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Dungeon Junk
Sep. 24th, 2024 08:52 am“I don’t care what hole in the ground you found it in, I’m not paying gold for this trash!” the merchant shouted, punctuating her words with a fist pounding on her counter. “It’s rubbish! Refuse! Garbage!! I can’t sell it!”
The maze rat on the other side of the counter looked increasingly despondent, and the merchant steeled herself for inevitable tears. “You don’t understand… these were the only things we were able to snatch on the way out. It was a nightmare in there! Can’t you please take a second look?” He looked up at her as he pleaded, and the merchant bit off an oath. It was monstrous of the law to allow people so young to become “adventurers”. And being the closest shop to the mouth of the labyrinth meant she was always their first stop once they crawled back out. She groaned, and rubbed her temples with thumb and forefinger, before reopening the Encyclopedia Magica and putting her glasses back on.
“All right. Show me your trash, one more time.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you – now, here, this dagger, we found it under a pile of tr–“ She silenced him with an upheld hand, and turned the blade over in her hands, flipping it back and forth as she held it up to the light. Under the glow of the special candles she used for appraisals, it didn’t sparkle – no enchantment. But it was, she admitted, at least somewhat novel, now that she looked closer. Bronze, bright and sharp, well cared for, but with a handle that was dark with years beyond years of handling and use – an heirloom piece. The guard had a sculpted detail of a wasp on it, that was nice. With all the emphasis on magic and enchanted tools there wasn’t much demand for simple items of quality. But maybe with the right story…
“Listen to me. Remember this for the next time you come selling. What you found was the last resting place of Hernan d’Avispa, and this is his famed dagger, ‘the Sting.’ Right?”
“No, it was just in a heap of trash-“
“I cannot sell a trash knife, dungeon brat! But I can sell the Sting, the lost weapon of a noble hero. Now do you understand what I’m saying?”
Confusion blossomed into understanding on the youth’s face, and he nodded swiftly. “Oh, of- of course! It was lodged in the skull of an ogre – he must have killed it before succumbing to, uh, to his own wounds, after fearsome combat!”
“Now that’s more like it! Good. Five gold pieces, then.” She marked five tally marks on a slate, already certain she could sell it for three times that.
“Surely for an artifact of such rarity you could give me ten…” the youth said with a sly smile, and she laughed. He was getting the spirit of it.
“Sorry, today all appraisals are final. Now c’mon.” She grinned and slapped a palm on the counter, ready to deal. “Show me what else you’ve got.”
The maze rat on the other side of the counter looked increasingly despondent, and the merchant steeled herself for inevitable tears. “You don’t understand… these were the only things we were able to snatch on the way out. It was a nightmare in there! Can’t you please take a second look?” He looked up at her as he pleaded, and the merchant bit off an oath. It was monstrous of the law to allow people so young to become “adventurers”. And being the closest shop to the mouth of the labyrinth meant she was always their first stop once they crawled back out. She groaned, and rubbed her temples with thumb and forefinger, before reopening the Encyclopedia Magica and putting her glasses back on.
“All right. Show me your trash, one more time.”
“Thank you! Oh, thank you – now, here, this dagger, we found it under a pile of tr–“ She silenced him with an upheld hand, and turned the blade over in her hands, flipping it back and forth as she held it up to the light. Under the glow of the special candles she used for appraisals, it didn’t sparkle – no enchantment. But it was, she admitted, at least somewhat novel, now that she looked closer. Bronze, bright and sharp, well cared for, but with a handle that was dark with years beyond years of handling and use – an heirloom piece. The guard had a sculpted detail of a wasp on it, that was nice. With all the emphasis on magic and enchanted tools there wasn’t much demand for simple items of quality. But maybe with the right story…
“Listen to me. Remember this for the next time you come selling. What you found was the last resting place of Hernan d’Avispa, and this is his famed dagger, ‘the Sting.’ Right?”
“No, it was just in a heap of trash-“
“I cannot sell a trash knife, dungeon brat! But I can sell the Sting, the lost weapon of a noble hero. Now do you understand what I’m saying?”
Confusion blossomed into understanding on the youth’s face, and he nodded swiftly. “Oh, of- of course! It was lodged in the skull of an ogre – he must have killed it before succumbing to, uh, to his own wounds, after fearsome combat!”
“Now that’s more like it! Good. Five gold pieces, then.” She marked five tally marks on a slate, already certain she could sell it for three times that.
“Surely for an artifact of such rarity you could give me ten…” the youth said with a sly smile, and she laughed. He was getting the spirit of it.
“Sorry, today all appraisals are final. Now c’mon.” She grinned and slapped a palm on the counter, ready to deal. “Show me what else you’ve got.”
