ENTRY 002: I HATE MONDAYS

Dear Diary,

If there’s a patron saint of lost causes, he must’ve blessed my pawn shop this morning because today was a parade of people who made me question why I even open the doors.

The first customer of the day shuffled in just as I finished unlocking. He was the sort of man who looked like he’d tried—and failed—to negotiate peace with a pack of worgs. His cloak was tattered, his boots were held together with a piece of string, and he carried a bundle wrapped in cloth that stank of mildew.

When he unwrapped it, I was greeted by the sight of a wooden carving of what I assume was meant to be a griffin. The craftsmanship was… charitable, let’s say. Its wings were uneven, its beak more of a blob, and one of its legs looked like it was melting.

(To be honest, it truly takes a great craftsman to make a piece of wood look like it's melting.)

“Carved by the elves of, ah, N-Neldorim,” the man claimed. I pretty sure he made that name up but I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I offered him five copper pieces for the “griffin” and sent him on his way. It’s now sitting on the shelf of curiosities, next to a goblet that's supposed to be haunted (I wish!) and a jar of “fairy dust” that’s almost definitely just glitter.

Later in the morning, a noblewoman swept in, the kind who dripped wealth and barely acknowledged the existence of commoners (read: me). She carried a jeweled necklace, supposedly “enchanted to ward off evil” (read: me again). The gems sparkled in the sunlight, but as I held it, I felt no hum of magic—just the hum of a piece that had been appraised too high by a jeweler looking for an easy mark.

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The question is, was this mark the woman or me?

She looked affronted when I offered twenty-four gold pieces. “Do you know what this is worth?” she demanded. I gave her my most polite shopkeeper’s smile (which meant showing all seven of my teeth and tusks) and said, “Yes. It's worth twenty-four gold pieces.” She huffed and puffed but sold it all the same.

Then there was the bard. There’s always a bard. This one was skinny (not that I ever met a fat bard), with a lute missing half its strings slung over his shoulder. He claimed to have an “enchanted music box” and demonstrated its power by opening it and unleashing a tune so horrendous that even the broom in the back stopped sweeping in protest. I offered him a silver piece just to take the box and run the hell away.

Truth be told, that was a bargain.

By mid-afternoon, my patience was thinner than my bedsheets. A young adventurer came in, clutching a sword with a blade so chipped it looked like it had been used as a shovel. “Family heirloom,” he said proudly. I didn’t ask him whether he meant the family of graverobbers, but I offered him five copper pieces. He practically beamed as he handed it over. So much for a heirloom!

The "sword" now rests in the discount bin, where it belongs.

Lastly, a wizard strolled in, with a hat so absurdly tall it belonged in the dictionary under "Overcompensation." He carried an object wrapped in a burlap sack and deposited it on the counter with all the reverence of a priest presenting a sacred relic.

“What’s in the sack?” I asked, bracing for disappointment. He declared it was a sphere of infinite knowledge. He even straightened his hat as though it might help sell the claim.

I pulled the sack open to reveal a perfectly ordinary glass orb. “Infinite knowledge, huh?” I said, turning it over in my hands. “Then you should know I'm not gonna give you more than thirty silver for it.”

All in all, a disappointing day, but what else should an honest half-orc expect from a Monday? The only thing consistent about this business is that it never fails to set the bar low and then trip over it.

Yours in profit,

Garren