The Shopkeeper's Tale

"Welcome, please come in," Cliff said as the door creaked open, his voice calm but firm. The small bell above the door chimed as two adventurers stepped inside, their heavy boots leaving trails of dirt on the wooden floor. Cliff glanced at the dirt but said nothing. His eyes moved to the adventurers; a pair he recognized from the inn. One had a thick leather vest strapped tight, his helmet tucked under his arm, while the other, slightly younger, wore chainmail that clinked with every step.

He knew what they wanted before they even said a word. Through the years, before and during his university days, he'd learned to read their faces, their tired eyes, the worn-out armor, and the subtle way they spoke about upcoming dungeons. “Heading for the fire basilisk’s lair today?” he asked, his tone clipped but caring. The older adventurer nodded, his face hard, but Cliff could see the anxiety behind it.

"Yes, deep in the mountain's lower chambers," the man said, exchanging a quick look with his companion. "We've been hired by an important client."

The other man asked, "How did you know?"

"You're dressed for it. And I've been given intel on the more common and unusual chambers of the mountain before setting up shop."

The two men nodded as Cliff moved behind the counter, his fingers skimming the rows of potions and neatly stacked weapons on the shelves. His hand hovered over a small glass vial filled with a faintly glowing red liquid. The fire-resisting potion. He set it on the counter with care, the glass clinking softly. "You'll need this," he said, sliding it toward them. "Don’t wait too long to use it once you're in the heat. These potions are strong, but they’ve got a limit. One bottle per person, no more than an hour of protection."

The younger one, shifting nervously, eyed the rows of swords hanging behind Cliff. His gaze was fixed on a simple iron blade, not flashy but reliable. Cliff noticed and nodded at the young man's precaution, for his rusted blade looked about to break. "That one’s a good fit for what you’re facing," he said, taking it down from the display. "Decent weight. Strong enough for common beasts, durable enough to last through a few battles."

The younger man hesitated, glancing at his older companion. "It’s all we can afford," the older one finally said, his voice low, embarrassed.

Cliff could’ve let the moment slide, could’ve let the adventurers walk away with what they could pay for. But despite his jaded outlook, he couldn’t shake the urge to keep them safe. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. "I’ll throw in some healing salves," he offered, reaching into a drawer behind the counter and pulling out a small tin. "In case things get rough. No extra charge."

The men looked at him, their expressions softening for a moment, grateful but too proud to say much. The older adventurer gave a slight nod. “We’ll remember that.”

As they counted out the coin, Cliff rang them up, the rhythmic clinking of silver on the wooden counter oddly soothing in the silence. When they left, he stood by the door, watching them disappear into the early evening fog. "Come see us again soon," he called after them, bowing slightly. He winced. He clsoed his eyes. 'Welcome" would be his first words to the world. 'See us again' would be his last.

The day rolled on and more adventurers from the inn and from their own travels visited his shop. They collected more decent gear, more elixirs and potions, and one was luckily sponsored enough to afford a trinket of valor, increasing his strength and courage everytime the item is equipped. He locked the door once to eat and then continued selling until the evening.

After the last customer came, Cliff shut the door, locking it behind him. His shop was quiet now, the familiar scent of leather and steel filling the room. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, feeling the fatigue settle in his bones. Cliff wiped down the counter, cleaning the marks left behind by adventurers’ heavy hands. His mind drifted to the inventory he’d need to place soon; more potions, especially fire-resistant ones, more basic weapons, and some specialty gear for the more seasoned soldiers. The shelves were far from looking thin, but he wanted to be prepared.

Cliff set down the rag and moved to the back of the shop where his ledger lay open on a small wooden desk. He began listing out the day’s sales: three swords, five healing potions, and a few odds and ends. The routine was familiar, grounding even. The candle ran low as he worked. With a sigh, he closed the ledger and set it aside. Dawn would come soon, and with it, another round of customers, another batch of adventurers heading into the mountains. He’d need to be ready, and that meant sending out word to the suppliers, arranging the next delivery.

Tomorrow, he’d meet with Dawnclaws for a new batch of goods, maybe barter for some higher-grade armor or see if the blacksmith down the road had anything new. But for tonight, he let himself rest, sinking into a chair near the window, his eyes on the fading embers of the fire in the hearth.

___

Three nights since opening. The shop bell chimed softly as Cliff ushered the last customer of the afternoon out, watching the man tuck his newly acquired leather cap beneath his arm and disappear down the snowy path. He had sold some old rusted weapons and cheap potions for it. He had the eyes of going into other cities, Cliff thought to himself, and he wished him luck on his journey.

The day had passed in a blur of transactions; shields of polished iron, swords with edges that gleamed dully in the light of his lanterns, and rows of healing tonics, their faint herbal scents hanging in the air. Each sale was a routine. He carefully explained the limitations of the weapons, how many strikes a sword could withstand before splintering, how often the tonics would need to be replaced.

There had even been a quiet trade with a local farmer, a man who had shuffled in with a bundle of old clothes wrapped under his arm. Cliff had bartered a decent leather cap for the worn garb. He planned to sell them to other more unfortunate villagers at half the price.

As the evening deepened, the familiar warmth of the inn beckoned in his mind. Every night, Farrow welcomed him, with his wide grin and hearty thanks for outfitting the adventurers who passed through.

He realized Kellan was always eager to share rumors of quests and rare monsters, his dreams of becoming a renowned adventurer making him collect information from their customers. He knew the kind of monsters spawning in the chambers, knew what to expect and what to wear if he ever did pass the admission exam for the adventurer’s guild. But he needed to save some more coins to gain admittance and boarding. Cliff learned that Kellan was a year younger than him, a spritely lad of sixteen, already tall like his father. Soon, he would grow more and would need decent armor.

Mila was sweet and silent. She blushed every time Cliff caught her eye, though Cliff only wanted to include her in the daily conversation.

As Cliff returned to his shop, the wind biting at his cheeks, he felt a strange energy stirring within him. He had never taken much care in arranging his wares before. Yet now, as he stepped back into the warmth of the shop, he found himself running his fingers along the wooden shelves, adjusting the rows of potions so their colorful contents caught the light just so. He laid out his weapons with greater precision, letting the steel reflect the flickering candlelight. He hoped that customers who have an eye for weapons would appreciate the slight curve of the hilts and the intricate detailing along the crossguards whispered of craftsmanship beyond mere necessity.

The healing tonics, neatly arranged in glass vials, glowed faintly green and blue in their thick, viscous liquid. Each promised relief from wounds that had yet to be inflicted, from cuts and bruises earned in battles still to come. Beside them, Cliff had placed the stronger draughts of stamina, potions that burned bright crimson, promising renewed strength when all else had been exhausted.

Customers trickled in, each greeted with a nod and careful suggestion. A young woman, eyes wide with the excitement of her first adventure, walked away with a modest but sturdy buckler and a small pouch of healing herbs. An older man, weary from countless battles, lingered over the enchanted bracers Cliff had recently acquired from a passing trader. By the end of the day, Cliff felt something he hadn’t in a long time: a faint, almost imperceptible glow of satisfaction.

As the last sliver of daylight vanished behind the snow-covered peaks, Cliff turned the sign on the door to Closed and began to extinguish the lanterns. But just as he reached for the latch, a soft knock came at the door. He hesitated, tired but curious. It was late, and the cold outside was enough to drive most people indoors long before now. Cliff sighed, thinking it was another adventurer desperate for last-minute supplies.

He swung the door open, expecting to see rusted armor or simple clothes. Instead, his breath caught in his throat.

There, standing on the threshold, was Niel.

His old childhood friend.

Niel. The playful child. The dreamer. The one who had convinced him once upon a time that Cliff had such a talent for selling, for realising the true value of an item.

Neil was wearing the standard armor of a novice adventurer–a bronze rank–and it clinked softly as he stood there, snow clinging to his pauldrons, his face etched with lines that hadn't been there the last time Cliff had seen him.

“Cliff,” Neil said, his voice rough but familiar. Warm. Strong. “It’s been too long.”