The Merchant's Errand

With the myconid alliance secured I should have kept moving toward the nearest trader. Instead my attention was pulled sideways—toward a presence I'd half-noticed and half-forgotten.

I followed it without explaining myself, which earned me a curious look from Shadowheart and an unbothered drift from the rest of the girls. The trail of mycelium-light led between two leaning trunks to a smaller hollow, and there, slumped against the base of a violet-capped mushroom, was a deep gnome.

A woman, frail and weathered, her skin gone grey-pale beneath its natural slate. Sweat beaded her brow despite the cool. One hand pressed against her ribs where a shallow cut had crusted dark, and the dark had spread—veins blackening outward from the wound like ink dropped in water.

“Poison,” Kagha said before I could ask, already kneeling, carefully studying the wound. Kagha's emerald eyes traced the blackened veins with the clinical pleasure of a scholar finding a wanted specimen. “Duergar work. Crude, but thorough. A single cut carries enough to fell someone twice her size.” She tilted her head. “She has perhaps an hour. Less.”

I fished the antidote vial from my pack, the same one I'd carried since the Abandoned Apothecary and never quite found cause to use. Convenient. I tipped it past her cracked lips, working her slack jaw until she swallowed.

For a moment nothing happened. Then her chest heaved, color crawling back into her cheeks like a tide returning, and the black veins began their slow retreat toward the wound.

Her eyes fluttered open—Dark grey, unfocused, then sharpening on the ring of strangers gathered above her.

“Whatever... that was... I needed it.” Her voice rasped. She swallowed again, wincing. “Duergar attacked me.” She managed to lever herself upright against the mushroom-base. “Those bastards.”

Lae'zel made a sound of pure contempt, arms crossed over her chestplate. “Pathetic. Such amateurs who must rely on poison to finish the work their blade could not.”

The gnome huffed a laugh that turned into a cough. Her gaze tracked between us all, settling back on me with wary gratitude. “Why'd you bother? You're not colony folk. Don't think we've met either.”

“We're not from around here,” I said, offering the easy truth. “Figured you could use some help—And I just so happened to have a spare antidote anyway.” I shrugged.

Behind me Shadowheart shifted, and I caught the soft involuntary hitch of her breath. Her hand had drifted to her palm, fingers pressing where her scar used to be, and her cheeks had gone faintly pink. Ah yes, the Lady of Loss didn't approve of charity.

She caught me noticing and looked away, clearly confused at Shar’s "message". I filed it without comment. Some corruptions were funnier left unremarked.

The gnome studied us for a moment longer, then let out a tired breath. “You're a weird bunch... but thanks for your help anyways.”

“Don't mention it.”

Karlach crouched beside her, careful to keep her radiant heat from blistering the gnome's skin, grinning that warm wolfish grin of hers. “Tell you what, love—we're already headed out to crack some Duergar skulls. I'll throw in an extra swing just for you. One free hit, on the house.” She mimed an overhead chop, breasts swaying with the motion.

“On the house,” the gnome echoed, a crooked smile cracked her weathered face. “Yeah. That'll do nicely. But nothing is free in this world, I know that.” She fumbled at her belt, working loose something tucked there, and held it out—a pair of unassuming yet comfortable looking leather boots. “Here. Take these. I nabbed 'em off one of the Duergar when I ran—figured I owed myself a souvenir. I'll feel better knowing you're using 'em to kick some Duergar arse.”

The famous Boots of Speed, capable of doubling the wearer's movement speed.

“Dibs,” I said, and had them on before anyone could so much as think the word. The magic settled into my legs like a coiled spring — a subtle, humming readiness that climbed up through the soles, itching to burst forward and leave any enemy swinging at empty air.

Shadowheart tilted her head, smirk already forming. “First the tiara, now new shoes. You're really committing to the role of party princess.”

Karlach snorted loudly.

Kagha looked between them, pondering it a moment, then nodding with complete sincerity.. “I agree. He deserves only the best.”

Karlach's snort collapsed into full, helpless laughter. She doubled over, one hand on her knee.

Lae'zel crossed her arms. Her expression remained perfectly serious except for the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Princess is a highly respected title among githyanki,” she said. “A mark of strength and lineage. It fits.”

That finished Karlach entirely. She went down onto the mossy ground, wheezing, tears at the corners of her eyes.

Shadowheart also broke—she let out a bright, beautiful laugh that lit up her whole face, one hand lightly covering her mouth.

I looked down at them, let the moment breathe, then straightened up with as much dignity as I could muster.

“Good,” I said. “Then bow.”

Karlach made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Shadowheart started wheezing. Lae'zel held her composure for exactly one second before she turned away, shoulders shaking. Kagha gave a polite bow, perfectly sincere without a trace of irony.

An oafish smile tugged at my lips while a fuzzy warmth filled my chest. These idiots. My idiots.

“Alright,” I said. “Up. We've got a merchant to fleece.”

We left Thulla propped against her mushroom, color returning, muttering thanks at our backs, and the colony song followed us toward the colony's far edge where a different light bloomed—warmer, lantern-yellow, distinctly civilized amid the bioluminescence.

A stall. Pots and bundles, dried fungi strung in careful rows, a tidy little waystation of commerce in the unlikeliest of places. Behind it stood a female dwarf, her sharp eyes appraising us before we'd opened our mouths.

“Surfacers,” Derryth Bonecloak said, the word weighed and found tolerable. “You don't see many of those down here breathing. What are you buying?”

What I was selling, more like. I pointed to the Warped Headband of Intellect on top of my head. “I know what I have” I said. “Worth a small fortune to the right collector.”

Derryth gave it an unimpressed look, the way only a veteran merchant could manage. “Pretty trinket. Banged up, though. Stone's chipped. 43 gold, that's my best price.” An insult more than an offer.

“No,” I said pleasantly. My gaze had already drifted past her, to a ring displayed on dark velvet at her elbow—dull copper, weeping a faint corrosive sheen. The Caustic Band. Bonus acid damage on every strike, a must-have on the right build. “How much for the ring?”

“Sixteen hundred.”

I almost laughed. “Sixteen hundred!”

“It's a fine piece,” she said, unmoved, “and there aren't many vendors down here. Prices reflect the inconvenience.”

So they did. I had nowhere near it, and the headband she'd buy for a pittance, and the whole exchange was sliding toward a polite stalemate—until something shifted in her face. The merchant's mask cracked into something more human, more tired.

“Though,” she said slowly, weighing me anew, “you're the adventuring sort, aren't you?” She didn't wait for an answer. “My husband. Baelen. He went out to gather mushrooms, and fool that he is hasn't come back. Lots of things down here are out to get you. He's likely pinned out there, too scared to move, slowly losing what is left of his mind.” Her face soured. “Bring him home, and we'll talk about prices. Friendlier ones. All of them.”

The headband recalculated before I'd finished hearing her, mapping the route, the ring, the leverage. I knew where he was. A Bibberbang field just outside the Myconid colony. It was exactly the kind of place that ate careless newcomers—But easy to navigate when familiar.

“We'll find him,” I said.

Derryth's shoulders eased a fraction. Behind me, Lae'zel and Shadowheart exhaled in quiet resignation, Kagha made a small, delighted sound, and Karlach cracked her knuckles with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been waiting for an excuse to hit something.

The ring justified the detour. One more favor, one more field of poison mushrooms. Fine.

We moved out, and let the colony's song fade behind us.