Darion Ragnar
08-16-09, 08:55 PM
“I’m glad you’ve come.”
The entrance to the shop was narrow, demure in its existence and plain in its decorum. No lavish awning of imported silk denoted the building’s importance, no sign or symbol hung above the doorless entry. It was, in a way, invisible – utterly nondescript and unexciting, a location that pulled no attention or interest from any a passerby. Of all the some odd two million people who called the city of Radasanth home, only a handful would have ever even strolled past the back-alley store; and even fewer would have ever ventured inside.
Within, the entirety of the shop was filled with smoke – a thin film of incense and burning spices whose odor was half intoxicating, half nauseating. Every inch of space had been consumed: piles of books rested atop stacks of tomes; rare and elaborate Raiaeran tapestries hung from every wall. Swords and shields sat on shelves alongside staves and wands, all covered in an unhealthy excess of dust. Necklaces hung from hat hooks, tarnished rings and flawed gemstones glittering and winking from this nook, from that cranny. There was hardly room for a person to walk (and not a single chair for one to sit) as far as the eye could see. Every bit of the room had a pile of something in it, those piles burying other piles, and those hiding even more beneath. It was chaos. Xaeryn loved it.
At the very far back of the merchant’s store was a cracked doorway, the dim glow of candlelight snaking out from within. Its fingers played idly across the collection of ancient nonsense, the only source of visibility in the entirety of the building casting eerie shadows within the already misty room. The luminescence crept from a candelabra, buried to the hilt in open books, resting atop a redwood desk. Setting behind it was a man in a black overcoat, each hand covered with a white glove and each finger decorated with a gold ring.
“My name is Xaeryn Gray,” he introduced himself in a low voice.
Unassuming – that would be the best word to describe the shopkeep as he leant over his desk, gloved fingers interlaced with one another, spectacles reflecting a glare that hid his eyes. For the sake of appearances he was young, perhaps in his late thirties, yet his shop – and his air – maintained that of one who held a vast abundance of years, each one spent in learning, in knowing. As he peered from behind his tiny round-rimmed glasses his thin lips quirked upward, tugging at the corners to just barely touch the tips of his bangs (black, long, and parted in the middle).
“I am a collector. And you…” he unlocked his hands, gesturing before him with a languid flick of his wrist. His rings shimmered in the low light. “You are the few people good enough to respond to my notices.”
Before him sat three lowback, mahogany chairs, and within those chairs sat three men: an elf, his narrow face half-concealed by a cowl; an elderly fellow with a crossbow in his lap; and on the furthest side, a large man with an equally large sword. Each sat in silence, listening to their employer speak.
“Now,” his smile broadened, “You know who I am. I would hope you would allow me the privilege of knowing your names. If you will, of course.”
The entrance to the shop was narrow, demure in its existence and plain in its decorum. No lavish awning of imported silk denoted the building’s importance, no sign or symbol hung above the doorless entry. It was, in a way, invisible – utterly nondescript and unexciting, a location that pulled no attention or interest from any a passerby. Of all the some odd two million people who called the city of Radasanth home, only a handful would have ever even strolled past the back-alley store; and even fewer would have ever ventured inside.
Within, the entirety of the shop was filled with smoke – a thin film of incense and burning spices whose odor was half intoxicating, half nauseating. Every inch of space had been consumed: piles of books rested atop stacks of tomes; rare and elaborate Raiaeran tapestries hung from every wall. Swords and shields sat on shelves alongside staves and wands, all covered in an unhealthy excess of dust. Necklaces hung from hat hooks, tarnished rings and flawed gemstones glittering and winking from this nook, from that cranny. There was hardly room for a person to walk (and not a single chair for one to sit) as far as the eye could see. Every bit of the room had a pile of something in it, those piles burying other piles, and those hiding even more beneath. It was chaos. Xaeryn loved it.
At the very far back of the merchant’s store was a cracked doorway, the dim glow of candlelight snaking out from within. Its fingers played idly across the collection of ancient nonsense, the only source of visibility in the entirety of the building casting eerie shadows within the already misty room. The luminescence crept from a candelabra, buried to the hilt in open books, resting atop a redwood desk. Setting behind it was a man in a black overcoat, each hand covered with a white glove and each finger decorated with a gold ring.
“My name is Xaeryn Gray,” he introduced himself in a low voice.
Unassuming – that would be the best word to describe the shopkeep as he leant over his desk, gloved fingers interlaced with one another, spectacles reflecting a glare that hid his eyes. For the sake of appearances he was young, perhaps in his late thirties, yet his shop – and his air – maintained that of one who held a vast abundance of years, each one spent in learning, in knowing. As he peered from behind his tiny round-rimmed glasses his thin lips quirked upward, tugging at the corners to just barely touch the tips of his bangs (black, long, and parted in the middle).
“I am a collector. And you…” he unlocked his hands, gesturing before him with a languid flick of his wrist. His rings shimmered in the low light. “You are the few people good enough to respond to my notices.”
Before him sat three lowback, mahogany chairs, and within those chairs sat three men: an elf, his narrow face half-concealed by a cowl; an elderly fellow with a crossbow in his lap; and on the furthest side, a large man with an equally large sword. Each sat in silence, listening to their employer speak.
“Now,” his smile broadened, “You know who I am. I would hope you would allow me the privilege of knowing your names. If you will, of course.”