"How well can you trust a wraith? Or better yet, why would you?"
Dawnbrook.
Population: approximately a century and a half heads.
Some seventy miles southwest of Windspear hills. Nestled amongst pine, rivers, and cliffs alike, this cozy little town was once an elven settlement before the Time of Troubles. The scenery makes it popular a tourist spot, as well as a haven for druids, rangers, and other followers of nature, and its historical background hints link to hidden wealth. Indeed, with its friendly locals and unmolested environs, Dawnbrook is one of those places one could dub a 'paradise'.
****
"Thank you for your patronage." He said as he handed the old lady her purchases. "Have a nice day, madam."
"Ah, bless ye, sonny!" the elder bowed as she went on her way. He watched as another batch of customers left his shop with a look of satisfaction on their faces. It was a common sight, true, but it was a sight he would welcome any day.
"Let's see now," running through his wares in a quick inventory check. "Rope, arrows, flint… that should do it." He hummed merrily as he reorganized some of his goods that have been misplaced about due to curious hands. "It seems I'm low on cured beef, as well."
Though strange a case, but not unheard of, Brook's Dame was one of the "rarer" types of stores available in the small town of Dawnbrook. It was thrice more spacious on the inside, betraying its façade. But that's not what it was known for. What made it so was that it carried both military wares and general merchandise under one roof. Usually, traders would prefer to sell but one kind of product so as to save time in organizing and managing what they deal. Nobody has that much patience in imagining, let alone trying, juggling between meat and spears. Yet, despite the unusualness of the establishment, it still manages to find itself to be the most frequented spot in the whole market strip.
A gust of wind, and the rustling of curtains, some minutes had flown by, and the merchant caught sight of somewhat expected visitors: a good dozen panoplied men, militia, apparently, entered the shop. They formed a uniform file before Malakros's desk, stationed and unmoving, as their superior, he who was dressed just a little better than the rest, stepped forward.
"Good day, sir." The soldier bowed slightly as a salute. "On behalf of sir Millsway, I greet thee."
"Good day to you all, as well. And in what manner can I be of service to your good selves, hmm?" Malakros bowed slightly.
"We bear message of business propositions, good sir."
"Please, do state."
"Well," the captain paused a bit. "I believe you're rather familiar with this one, sir."
"Oh, no, not this again." He chuckled, scratching his head.
"Yes, sir. Lord Millsway would like to request for your assistance with the departing caravan. He believes that your presence would inspire those who wish to venture into entrepreneurial prof—"
"With all due respect to you and your lord," Malakros politely cut the soldier short, raising his hand. "But you and I both know that's not what he's after. If he truly wants to inspire new blood, he better stop using me as a branding rod." The marketer finished with a wink. He could see the guard grin beneath the iron mask that was his helmet. "Go and tell him that I'm preoccupied at the moment," he dismissed. "And get yourselves some flasks of ale. They're right there, by the swords. Don't worry, they're on me."
"Thank you, sir!" a couple of the men voiced out.
"Brings me back…" the shopkeeper sighed as the last of the guard had exited, glancing at the suit of armor that hung on the rack behind him. "Horizon's Glaive."
Most people would wonder why a lad such as him would choose to sit behind a merchant's counter than go build a reputation for himself as either a warrior or bard. He was good-looking, and he was well versed in the arts of war, being raised in a barracks. Well, indeed, he could take up either profession. He certainly met the requirements. But what he had right that moment was something he came up with from pure choice. If people knew him deeper, they would understand that he had been through that kind of lifestyle, of sword and of song, albeit even though just for a short season. He had seen, tasted; felt everything associated to what those around him called the "perfect" of all modus vivendi. He detested the fruit it bore, and he detested the chaos it wrought his direction. And he did not like it. At all. He had enough, and he, who went by the name of Malakros, firmly believed that he could help others without resorting to the blade.
It was a good seven summers ago, when Malakros was the head of the Horizon's Glaive, an order devoted to Fharlanghn, god of travel. They were well-known throughout neighboring towns as the best merchant guards, being able to defend numerous caravans at once and drive back any form of attack thrown at them. These skilled warriors have repelled bandits, gnolls, orcs, and at one time, even a dreaded black dragon. Despite the praises, they never lost sight of their code. The founding members: Malakros, and his good friends Mayra and Gabriel, firmly believed that they should put their skills to good use for the benefit of all, without asking for anything in return. They were champions of valor and good will, and nothing could stop their campaign of right. Indeed, to him, those were the good old days.
He was about to continue with his reminiscence, until a certain someone burst his thought bubble.
"Good tidings, kind merchant." a woman popped in, dressed in finery, and her beautiful face outlined by some three necklaces studded with precious rock.
He gave a casual nod to the newcomer, and grinned. "To what pleasure do I owe the maiden for her presence?"
"Oh, cut your flatteries!" she blushed.
"You look cuter when embarrassed." He laughed heartily. "So, what brings you here, my lady?"
"Just passing through, my friend. Yet another pleasant day for business, aye?"
"So you disrupt my trip down memory lane to ask a silly question, huh?"
"Oh, you know me." The lady giggled. "So… market day's treating you well?"
"It's good, yes. People keep on coming. Profits are good this moon."
"Profits?" the lady chuckled in friendly tease. "Come on, man, what could be profitable in the way you run business?"
"I don't see anything wrong with my operations." He raised an amused brow. "Do you?"
"Three gold off per ten gold? What you're doing isn't even covering the basic cost of the materials."
"Oh, and I thought you suspected me of piracy, or something similar." He grinned. "It hardly matters to me. As long as they continue to support me, then all's even, right?"
"Malakros." She sighed. "You'll never get to be an ace in the business if you go on like this."
Indeed, most would find it strange that a salesman would be more interested in losses rather than gain. Ten percent off would be the most reasonable, and the most realistic option. But three decennaries off was something others of the same trade as he would consider insane. Still, despite criticism and ridicule, he held on strong with his decision. Gold mattered not to him. His fares made ends meet, and that was already something of satisfaction to the humble merchant. And more importantly, his dealings brought him genuine respect—something no amount of gold could purchase.
"I see my words are lost in you." the woman shook her head, her tone marked with strains of all-too-familiar disappointment. "Very well, then. I'm off."
Malakros remained silent, instead giving a nod and offering a sincere smile in response, which still managed to disarm her.
"I'll see you around then, my friend." But before she could take leave, the sound of bustling and cheer, hearty chatter and the like, was headed her direction. She turned to her man-of-affairs friend with an excited gleam in her eye. No doubt. "Seems like you've got more company!" And then she went.
****
A well group of six—obviously adventuring—people spilled into his abode. Before anything else, Malakros cast some discreet yet discerning glances to study his guests. Judging by how they look, it was certain that they were accomplished. The party literally screamed "magical equipment!". He was very sure that the strangers carried a considerable wealth with them.
"Come on! If you want to buy that mace you keep on picking up, then just get to it!" a pink-haired girl pressured.
"Do not rush me, my friend!" The lean, bald, and heavily tattooed man huffed. "Minsc and Boo must first determine the craftsmanship of this fine weapon, to see if it will last as I drive my boot up evil's buttocks!" his zeal resounding with the squeaking of what Malakros determined as coming from a small animal, probably a rodent of sorts.
"Would you two behave yourselves," came another woman's voice. Her accent, though robust, emanated authority and grace. He took a quick look.
"Half-elven?" Malakros mused, a faint smile spread across his lips.
"Oh, Jaheira, would you loosen up?" the girl from a while ago answered, holding one of the daggers up for sale, and apparently made it "vanish" with a flick of the wrist, which made Malakros grin.
Peripheral vision caught the second half of the merry troupe. Standing by the doorway was a hooded figure, though identifiably female. The mystery woman was motionless, save for the very sparing shifts in stance every once in a while. She was totally concealed, or at least she thought she was. A few digits slipped out from her loose sleeve. Skin, a bit off from pale blue of sorts, caught Malakros's attention.
"Drow?" gasped, and squinted, but immediately turned away as instinct told him that she was starting to be aware of his sight-seeing.
More discreetly this time, he returned his vision to where it was before. Some three feet away from the Underdark denizen he had recently spotted was a middle-aged man clad in regal, steel armor. To the merchant's surprise, the man looked at him squarely in the eye, and chuckled, plainly aware of the observation being made. Malakros merely nodded to accept his little defeat.
The final member of the party decided to get out of the building before Malakros could have even gotten the chance to keep an eye on him. It was odd, though. Upon the person's departure, he felt as if a very… dark… presence had dissipated.
"Well, then," he said to himself. "They seem a handsome enough sort."
Formulating his thoughts—what to say, and when—he got up from his roost to approach potential buyers, with arms wide open. "Welcome," he bowed in salute. "Welcome to the Brook's Dame."