If it hadn’t taken them over six hours to find an inn as cheap as the one they got, they would’ve slept earlier and woken up at a perfectly normal time. Instead, by the time Dain woke up, it was already a little past midday, and the festival was already roaring in full swing outside.
The capital of Obric attracted people from around the world as it prepared for the parade at dawn: countryside folk who came in the hopes of catching even a glimpse of the Grand Minelord, mercenaries looking to earn introductions to his royal guard, and many, many traveling merchants hoping to capitalize on the festivities to sell their wares for higher prices than usual. If Dain were here as a relic merchant, perhaps he’d also try the same. He’d never seen a festival quite as big as this one before.
Thankfully, the failure four were seasoned adventurers who hadn’t been swept up by the mood. The moment they all crawled out of their miserable room, they split off around the city to make their individual preparations for delaying the parade tonight, which, apparently, wouldn’t cost them any money. Not that they had any in the first place. He would’ve followed them just to be safe, but there was something he needed to do as well, so they’d agreed to meet back up at the inn an hour before the dusk bell.
And what he had to do… was not touring the main streets like a simple traveler.
He wasn’t like the failure four, though. They’d probably played around in previous festivals before, but he’d never even left Corvalenne. Every shop’s doors were opened, vendor stalls were blocked off by masses of people, and Obric songs floated from buildings that bustled with singers and entertainers. The view of the muddy red ribbons and banners snapping from street lamps overhead was beautiful. The shared joyous energy was even more infectious, and he had to restrain himself from getting swept up in the rhythm.
But another lamb skewer or two for lunch wouldn’t hurt, he thought, stopping by a streetside stall and haggling with the chef once again. Three skewers for twenty curons. Every deal he made with every food stall today was an absolute steal as far as he was concerned. Now, where in the gods’ names is…
His thoughts trailed off as he finally found—after nearly two hours of walking around—the small, shadowed alley tucked between two open-air taverns. He blinked with a skewer mid-chew in his mouth as he noticed it. He couldn’t believe how obvious it was now that he’d found it again, because he couldn’t walk anywhere on the main street without bumping into someone’s shoulder, while the mouth of that small alley was suspiciously clear of any crowds. People were unconsciously avoiding getting close to it.
Maybe he should’ve yanked at least one of the three non-humans with him so he could’ve found it earlier.
… Oh, whatever.
It was fun messing around with the festival while it lasted.
Maybe next year, he’d be able to tour the festival again with Anisa and Yasmin.
He broke off from the crowd, slipped through the shadowed alley, and pushed his way into the Sweet Dreamer’s shop through the inconspicuous wooden door. The moment he stepped inside, Karatash’s noise dropped away again like the city had swallowed its own tongue. Dim, resin-sweet air immediately wrapped around him. The same trinkets hung from the ceiling, swaying gently, while jars and bundles of magic materials sat stacked in impossible towers on shelves all around. If he was worried this might not be the same shop, his worries were just dispelled.
Behind the counter at the end of the shop, the Dreamer was awake this time, rocking back and forth in her chair with her wide-brimmed hat casting her face into shadow. Rosary cords draped down from the brim like a bead-curtain and clinked faintly with every slight movement of her head. She was also humming to herself in a tongue Dain didn’t recognize once again, but she stopped the moment the front door closed.
Her head lifted. Pale teeth flashed beneath the beads.
“Welcome, welcome,” she said warmly. “A familiar door opens, and a familiar owl returns to the light. What brings you back to my little stomach of oddities?”
Dain shrugged, already drifting away from the door to start browsing like he owned the place. “Well, I feel guilty,” he said. “I did break your glass bowl and spilled that silver liquid all over your floorboards.”
The Dreamer’s shoulders shook with a dry little cackle. “Oh, but you paid for the bowl twice over.”
“Exactly,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a grin. “So now I’m here to get my money’s worth back. I’d hate for your conscience to weigh too heavily. Give me a discount?””
The Dreamer waved him off and resumed humming behind her counter. Meanwhile, he moved slowly along the shelves, evaluating the goods for sale. This wasn’t like the flashy materials shops along the main festival lanes with bright racks of polished ores and neat bundles of city-approved herbs. Sweet Dreamer shops were typically illegal—most cities wouldn’t want a shop manipulating people’s perception of it, after all—so this place sold herbs that were kinda poisonous, metals that seemed to sweat faintly in their wrappings, and jars full of powdered stone that glittered like ground bones. A basket of dried petals made the hairs on his arm rise when he walked by too close.
Outlandish is good, he reminded himself. If there was something he’d learned about Belara, it was that the stranger the materials, the more powerful her cursed relics.
The other reason he’d come here specifically, though, was the price tags. Everything was strangely reasonable. He only had two thousand and five hundred curons left after spending about five hundred for last night’s room and today’s festival snacks, which meant—if he were to save at least five hundred so he wouldn’t starve tomorrow—he could only spend about two thousand on materials today. Normal materials shops in Karatash would easily eat two thousand curons with one or two ‘quality’ purchases, but here…
He crouched near a low shelf and found—tucked deep under it like it was ashamed—two large sacks made of thick and rough cloth. Curious, he tugged one free and peered inside to find an absolute load of silverplume feathers packed and pressed into a giant clump.
“Silverplume owl feathers are cheap things,” the Dreamer called out, noticing him. “Nobody has bought them in years, so you can have both sacks for seven hundred curons.”
“Four hundred,” he called back.
“Six hundred.”
“Five.”
“Deal.”
It took him around fifty silver plume feathers to earn his wingcloak in the first place. At a cursory glance, there were at least a hundred feathers in both sacks, so buying all of them for five hundred curons was borderline criminal.
I can use these feathers to upgrade my wingcloak. Hopefully I’ll get more swiftness levels out of it.
But…
He glanced back at his inanimate wingcloak. He’d be lying if he said if he weren’t slightly worried that upgrading it would make it even more aggressive towards people other than him, but he needed his leverage. Anything that could keep Stonewraith from just rushing him down.
With this first purchase mentally locked in, his mind shifted to the next necessity: cooling. If he was going to face Stonewraith again, he’d have to keep his firelight oreblade ignited at all times for the additional sharpness, and that was going to burn him. He was simply fortunate that Anisa’s revival amulet also provided a full heal, because otherwise he’d still be sporting blisters and burn marks all over his left hand and forearm. He needed a cooling-type relic.
I already have a glove, so maybe that can be the base offering.
As for the main offering…
He wandered past a shelf of dried roots, then a display of black salt in sealed pouches, and then he stopped.
Half a dozen jars sat on a high shelf in a row, each one fogged faintly from the inside. The contents were misty-blue chunks that looked like ice that’d forgotten how to melt, and cold vapor pressed against the glass in lazy swirls, even in the warmth of incense. Thin layers of frost clung around the jar rims like lace.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
He frowned. He didn’t recognize them, and that bothered him.
“What are these?” He glanced back at the Dreamer. She craned her head over in response.
“Ah. You’re looking at the north.”
“The north has a lot of things. Be more specific?”
“Those are Uncommon grade winter solstice frostshards,” she said. “Like all materials harvested from the Vyrmgaard Continent, they’re grown where the sun forgets how to rise properly, and they drink the cold of the world and never give it back.”
Dain kept staring at the jars. “They’re leaking mist.”
“They’re always leaking mist. Merchants ship them south as curiosities. Cooks use them to keep meat sweet in desert heat. Alchemists use them for chemical preservation. I’ll sell them to you for five hundred curons each jar.”
He looked down at his clothes, then at his glove, then back at the jars.
These might just be what I’m looking for, and seeing as there are no known offering recipes for cursed relics…
I have to try.
He nodded to the Dreamer. “I’ll have three of these, then.” He dug into his satchel, pretended to rummage around for his coin sacks—even though the void dimension gave him what he wanted the moment he thought about them—and then tossed four sacks onto the counter with a soft thud.
The Dreamer began counting the coins meticulously, even though she didn’t count them yesterday when Rena threw her a thousand curons.
… It’s because I’m a merchant, huh?
He watched her for a second and then chuckled. “While you do that,” he said, “any chance you have a spare room with a bit of privacy? I’d rather not have to walk through the festival lanes carrying these bulky sacks and jars, so I’d like to stuff them all into my satchel first.”
“Upstairs,” the Dreamer murmured, tilting her head at the stairs. “The bathroom opposite the room where you were yesterday. Try not to break that one, too.”
“I make no promises,” he said lightly.
While the Dreamer continued counting, he lifted the two heavy feather sacks with his hands, whistled for his silverplume owl to carry one frostshard jar, and had his wings wrap around the other two jars. Then he started up the stairs, heaving the entire way up, and quickly found the open bathroom. It was much more sweet-smelling and spacious than he’d expected. The walls were hardwood, the washbasin and bathtub were polished stone, and the mirror was silver-lined. It was easily a better room than the bedroom he slept in last night.
Once he stepped inside, he shouldered the door shut behind him and locked it.
Then he didn’t move for a second as he listened.
The shop below was quiet. The Dreamer’s faint humming drifted up through the floorboards, but he was fairly certain she couldn’t hear him up here. Still, he turned around and scanned the walls, checked the corners, and looked for anything that could pass as a peephole. Nothing obvious stood out.
“Alright then,” he murmured. “One last time, Great Belara.”
He brought his hands together and clapped as softly as he could.
The air in the bathroom puckered as the portal swirled open, but he immediately raised a finger to his lips while Belara’s pale hands slithered out.
“Hello, Great Belara,” he whispered. “Please be as quiet as possible. Perhaps it’s foolish to summon you here, but I really, really don’t wanna lug around all those materials outside if I can help it. Now, I have two requests for you.”
First, he shrugged off his silverplume wingcloak. “This will be the base offering.” Then he nudged the sacks of silverplume feathers forward with his foot. “And these will be the side offerings. I don’t need a new ability. If you can just make the wingcloak a higher grade, I’ll be happy.”
Three of Belara’s hands immediately swept down and pulled in all of his offerings. The fourth hand lingered, hovering near Dain’s chest as if waiting for the rest.
“Right,” he muttered. “Second request.”
He started stripping.
Trousers first, because if he did shirt first he’d feel too exposed too quickly, and he wasn’t interested in testing how brave he was in front of a goddess’ hands. Then his shirt. Then his shoes, and then his glove, until he stood there in only his underwear and socks.
His silverplume owl, perched on the washbasin’s edge, let out a shriek. Dain scowled at it.
“Keep your voice down.”
But when he turned back to the portal, Belara’s fingers were also curled inward that looked for all the world like embarrassment. One hand even made a little fluttering motion, palm fanning itself as if overheated.
His scowl deepened.
“Oh, come on. What are you embarrassed about, either?” he muttered, holding out all of his clothes. “These are standard adventuring apparel I bought back in Granamere. They’ve been with me through thick and thin, so I’d like to turn them into something useful. These will be the base offerings, and… these will be the main offerings.”
Belara’s hands followed his gaze as he lifted the three frostshard jars one by one.
“These are Uncommon grade winter solstice frostshards, harvested straight from the Vyrmgaard Continent itself,” he said. “They’re great for preserving food on the Akhemir Continent, but they can also be used as chemical preservatives. I’ve been told they release this frosty mist all year round, which means they’d be just right for a cooling-type relic. Can you give me clothes that’d let me keep my firelight ignited?”
This time, the pale hands had to think. He hated that pause. Part of being a good merchant was being able to read a client’s face, but there was no face here for him to read. He couldn’t tell if she didn’t know what to make of his offerings, or if she simply didn’t like what he was offering.
But then she simply swept all of his materials back into the portal, and he let out a soft, relieved sigh.
Don’t give me a fright like that.
I doubt the old lady down there would give me a refund if you didn’t accept the frostshards.
… And now he was left standing in the bathroom, almost stark-naked, with only an owl and his own thoughts to keep his company.
The owl stared at him.
He stared back.
The silence stretched long enough that he became aware of his own breathing, the faint hum of the shop below, and the way the hardwood floorboards seemed almost freezing beneath his feet. He rubbed his arms, goosebumps rising.
“It’s also getting cold, huh?” he muttered to the owl. “Tomorrow’s the first day of winter. You’re an owl. Are you excited for winter?”
The owl blinked at him slowly, then turned its head away like it was too dignified to acknowledge him.
“Yeah. Same.”
After a moment longer, the hands finally returned. The first thing Belara took out was his wingcloak, and for the most part, it was still the very same one he remembered—but there were two clear differences. The feather density was higher, for one. The wingcloak looked much fuller, thicker, and less like a garment and more like a living pair of wings.
The second difference was the hood, attached seamlessly to the collar and shaped like an owl’s head. The inside of the hood had faintly softer feathering, and when he took it with both hands, feeling just how soft and warm he’d be under the wingcloak, he immediately grinned.
***
Name: Silverplume Wingcloak
Type: Passive Implement-Class Cursed Relic, Common-9
Attribute Addition: +5 Swiftness
Ability Description: The holder can control the wings like flexible, living appendages. Destroyed silverplume feathers will regenerate slowly as long as the underlying fabric is not damaged. The passive drain is 0.8 mana regeneration per hour.
However, the wings are sentient, and they may not heed the holder’s commands if they are not properly taken care of.
***
Two additional levels in swiftness were nothing to scoff at, even at the cost of slightly higher mana regeneration drain, but the real prize was the second set of relics that Belara returned with.
A long-sleeved shirt, trousers, a pair of shoes, and a glove—all black and cut to fit his frame like someone had measured him in his sleep. Silver stitching traced along the seams and hems, and when lanternlight caught it, there was a faint, almost imperceptible blue glow buried in the threads.
***
Name: Frostnerve Set
Type: Passive Implement-Class Cursed Relic, Common-9
Attribute Addition: +2 Resilience
Ability Description: When the full set is worn, the clothes and shoes will constantly regulate the holder’s body temperature, absorbing heat and cooling the holder evenly. The passive mana drain is 1 mana regeneration per hour.
However, if the clothes have to absorb heat that is stronger than their grade, the holder’s body will be cooled excessively, gradually causing frostbite across the body evenly.
***
Dain took his set of clothes, feeling the fabric. Soft and breathable and flexible. Just how he liked it. The shoes were also sturdy and grippy, with soles that looked like they’d bite into stone rather than slide on it.
But he read the Tag twice.
… It’s another conditional curse effect.
Relief spread through him like warm water. He could work with conditional effects. Considering his firelight oreblade was Common-9—same as the Frostnerve Set—the heat his oreblade could produce probably wouldn’t go over the maximum absorption limit of his new clothes. Furthermore, the frostbite effect from the clothes would be distributed evenly across his body instead of all the heat from the oreblade being concentrated in his left arm. As long as he wasn’t physically standing in fire or running around in the desert, he should, in theory, never suffer too much from the even spread of frostbite. He'd essentially be trading in the cursed effect of burning himself for the cursed effect of freezing himself, and he was a man of the Brastel Continent. His tolerance for cold was much better than his tolerance for heat.
And wearing the whole set also gives me an additional two levels in resilience.
This is probably the best thing I could’ve gotten from her.
He looked at Belara’s hands.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “That’s all I have for today.”
The hands wiggled their fingers, then retreated into the portal as he started pulling his new clothes on.
