Sales

Steven stood in Hide & Hammer, Trish’s list of exotic materials—stormdrake scales, abyssal octopus hide, phoenix emberfeather, and more—swirling in his head like a storm of possibilities. Her gruff rundown had sparked his D-rank hunger, but the sheer range left him reeling. He rubbed his neck, chuckling. “Kinda overwhelmed here, Trish—too many choices. Maybe I’ll hunt somethin’ down myself, bring ye what I like. Raincheck on the exotics—I’ll come back with somethin’ good.” She smirked, crossing her arms. “Fair play, lad—hunt yer own beast, I’ll stitch whatever ye drag in.”

His mind flicked to his latest haul, and he snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah—got some bear claws and hide from a recent scrap. You want it? Sell it to ye cheap.” Trish’s eyes widened, a glint of surprise breaking her gruff mask. “Bear, eh? Ain’t worked with that in ages—claws’re no use to me, too brittle for armor, but the hide? Aye, I’ll take it.” Steven pulled the Cave Bear Pelt from his bag, the thick, shaggy brown fur still matted with dust and blood from the fight. She spread it across the counter, running her calloused hands over it—checking the grain, the tears, the heft.

“Good size, decent shape—few claw marks, but I can work ‘round ‘em,” she muttered, then looked up. “Fair but cheap, ye say? I’ll give ye 30 copper—profit’s mine after I tan and sell it. Deal?” Steven nodded—cheap was fine; he’d no use for it, and 30 copper was quick coin for a pelt he’d otherwise let rot. She grunted approval, sliding the copper across, her grin sharp. “Hunt smart, lad—bring me somethin’ wild next time.”

Steven tucked the 30 copper from the Cave Bear Pelt into his pouch, satisfied with the quick sale, but the Bear Claws still lingered in his mind—useless to Trish, but maybe not to someone else. “Who can I sell my claws to?” he asked, leaning on the counter. Trish scratched her chin, her gruff voice rumbling. “Blacksmith might take ‘em—could grind ‘em for inlays or tool grips. Head to The Salty Hammer by the docks—old Jorn’s always tinkerin’ with odd bits.” Steven nodded, grateful. “Thanks, Trish—catch ye later.” She clapped the counter as he turned. “Bring me somethin’ epic next time, lad!” she called, her laugh echoing out the door.

He stepped into the Mistveil’s foggy night, the Stormgull Flyer set—steel-gray shirt and blue-black pants—swaying with his stride. The docks weren’t far, the salty tang guiding him to The Salty Hammer, a squat forge hugging the waterfront, its chimney puffing smoke into the haze. The clang of metal rang out—time to offload the claws and see what Jorn could make of them.