A/N: Far from my best work, but it was done for some headcanoning, and I'm proud of the headcanon, if nothing else.
The Salesman frowned deeply at the long-unused room that as supposed to act as a sleeping quarters. he'd been awake and travelling for 3 days, and then he worked, losing his sense of time here, and found himself so drained of energy that he couldn't even think of making the dimensional leap into his pocket.
He was so tired, in fact, that already, he was being reminded why this room stood vacant of his energies. Why the bed was long left barren, and why the room most would consider homeliest was the room he felt most ill-at-ease in. They were back.
It never bothered him much during his waking hours. An errant thought here, a smidge of pain there, nothing too unmanageable, and he had to actively try to sense further into even his most precious and beloved of masks. But when he was tired, it was weird, almost as if that sense was amplified along with his hearing and his sensitivity to light and touch, which, of course, were more likely related to the body he was inhabiting than anything else. But it didn't matter why, it just mattered that it happened. He knew his clientele didn't feel it the way he did, the light, positive associations tended to be the strongest, but then there were some…
He lifted up a grimy mask he'd been meaning to clean off. It had been lost at sea when its owner died in a storm. He knew this, and it didn't bother him, except for now. He could feel the mask's memories, its moments calling to its long-term wearer. The wearer's soul was even attached, albeit fragmented. And the Salesman felt very, very cold. So cold, and scared, and…he hurled the thing across the room in horror. It was times like these he questioned if he should even sell his masks.
The mask on his face even gave him trouble on bad nights. It itched, burned, this mask was a guard, damn it! A guard, not a guide! He needed to fulfill that role! That…role he'd failed centuries ago when his people died. And then the mask fell into despair.
But that was never the end of it. Judgement from the first mask he'd ever got. The last moments of the proud goron. A shrieking, angry battle. all happening simultaneously, all happening so loudly, as though he were init. He couldn't sleep like this! Who could?
He felt his face contorting into a grimace of pain, but he couldn't tell what was more painful, the cacophony, or the fact that he just felt a bludgeon to the head as one of his newer masks had encountered.
His gift was great, it helped him to be certain he found the right home for each mask, and yet, once in a blue moon, he had to sit through this hell. All because of his gift. All because he knew these masks.
And then he shot bolt upright in his bed, still bare as ever. Had he gotten enough sleep, he wondered. When had he fallen asleep? He couldn't remember that, not could he remember a lot of the thoughts his masks had for him as he lay there bombarded. Rubbing at his eyes, he found his cheeks to be clammy. Had he fallen asleep in tears? That was…exceptionally rare.
With a moment's pause, he decided, definitely, he was going to take a nap at the end of this day, just to be safe, because he was not going through that again. He promised himself, just like every other time.