> “When you are like everyone, you are nobody; but when you are different from everyone, you are somebody.” – Mehmet Murat Ildan

"The audacity of that man!" Nord exclaimed, her eyes narrowing into slits as she watched Baal interact with Kirara through the window. Her fingers clenched into fists so tight her nails dug into the palms of her hands.

"Nord?" Adamastor's voice interrupted her boiling thoughts, but she was too consumed in her indignation to really hear him.

"He is flirting with my cat!" she mumbled, the disbelief and indignation lacing her words as she continued to seethe.

"Nord," Adamastor called out again, this time with a tone of urgency as if trying to pull her back from the edge of her outrage.

"I'm going outside to give him a piece of my mind. Maybe even leave a matching handprint on his other cheek!" Nord declared, spinning on her heels. Her boots thudded against the hardwood floor, each step a manifestation of her pent-up frustration, as she was ready to storm toward the door.

Adamastor moved quickly, intercepting her by grabbing her arm just as her hand was about to seize the doorknob. "Leave it, they're just talking," he said, his eyes meeting hers.

Nord shook off his grip, her eyes still locked onto his. For a moment, the intensity of her anger wavered as if considering his words. But then, her jaw clenched again, and without uttering another syllable, she swept out of the salon.

Her footsteps gradually faded into the distance, leaving Adamastor standing alone in the room, shaking his head. There was a sense of an invisible line being crossed, and he wondered, not for the first time, what exactly he had gotten himself into.

She hid herself behind a random door and closed it behind her, only then realizing she had stepped into a dimly lit room. Blinking to adjust to the shadows, Nord moved to the curtains that hung over what she assumed were storefront windows. With a swift flick of her wrist, she slid them open, allowing a soft light to filter into the room. What she saw was unlike anything she expected—an antique store that, at first glance, appeared as an incomprehensible jumble of items.

However, upon closer inspection, the chaos revealed itself to be a finely curated collection. The space was actually well-organized, divided into discreet sections that held an array of disparate objects. Dolls, statues, and intricate figure paintings greeted visitors at the front of the store.

Behind that was a row dedicated to musical instruments, everything from antique violins to strange-looking drums and flutes. Beyond that, fine porcelain dinnerware, exquisite cutlery, ornate jars, and decorative plates claimed another section. And then there were pencils, quills, and a vast array of tools for calligraphy. The counter itself seemed like a vault of arcane relics—crystals, jewellery, tarot decks, and Ouija boards, all displayed with a curious air of reverence.

Nord's mind whirred as she tried to make sense of it all. She remembered something Adamastor had mentioned—that Rosemarie, the store's prior proprietor, traded magical relics for her "services." But what services could those be?

Adamastor broke the contemplative silence, stepping into the dim room where Nord had been lost in thought. "You'll need to reopen the store soon."

"How?" Her question was half scepticism, half curiosity.

"Rosemarie had her methods. She dealt with objects requiring cleansing, banishing malevolent spirits—basically, she fed the Hallow," Adamastor unravelled a bit of the enigma.

"I don't feel it yet, the Hallow, I mean."

"Sooner or later, it will become restless. It will want sustenance," he warned, his tone darkening.

"Then what did she give in return for these…donations?"

"It was situational. Common items usually required no compensation. But when people brought her powerful artefacts—a deck of cards that could manipulate fate, a spoon that made any dish delectable, a gem that revealed hidden truths—she offered specialized services."

"Specialized like…?"

"Rosemarie was a keen interpreter of dreams," Adamastor finally disclosed.

"So, she played fortune teller?"

Adamastor chuckled, his fangs glinting briefly in the subdued light. "Quite the opposite. She claimed she was a therapist back on Earth."

"Oh, psychotherapy. Very Freudian. Always the parents' fault," Nord quipped.

Adamastor burst into hearty laughter, his fangs catching the soft light. "That's exactly what she used to say."

Nord, still mesmerized by the curiosities that cluttered the room, snapped back to reality. "I'm a tattoo artist, Adamastor. I can't imagine many people in this uptight realm are interested in getting their skin inked."

"What if the tattoos were more than just ink? What if they were talismans? Lucky charms?"

Adamastor leaned back against the counter, a glint in his eyes.

Nord's face lit up as if a switch had been flipped. "Lucky charms? So, replace a bad fate with a good one? That's intriguing. But I'm not a charm-maker or a spell-caster."

"You have a powerful wizard who owes you a favour. Perhaps he could help," Adamastor suggested.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"Who?"

"Merlin," Adamastor said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"The Merlin?

"What other Merlin are you thinking of?"

"Well, even if The Merlin helped, I don't have my tool. I would need a machine..." Nord stopped herself.

"You need a what?" asked Adamastor.

"I brought a tattoo machine, ink and a solar charger. I brought almost everything I needed," she mumbled. Her mind was racing with questions: How did she know? How did she know she needed solar energy to feed her tool? How...

"So what do you need?" asked Adamastor, a bit confused.

"Hygiene and proper furniture. Like a dentist's seat, gloves, cotton, and sterilizer. A lot of sterlizer."

"That is doable. You can go to the pharmacy. They have those things. For a dentist seat... You can ask Sirona how to purchase or find such a thing," he guided. He noticed how Nord looked at him as if disappointed, "I can’t get out of the manor in daylight."

"Of course, I will do those things by myself, and it is a good excuse to know the town a little better."

"Now about the accountings..." Adamastor shifted gears, turning his gaze towards a stack of ledgers on a nearby table.

"What about it?" Nord questioned, her curiosity piqued.

"The store doesn't exactly generate profit—quite the opposite, in fact. The real income comes from the Morningstar."

"How so?"

"Inn services, salons, alcohol, music—well, you get the idea," Adamastor elaborated, shuffling some papers on the counter.

"So it's a brothel?" Nord's eyes widened.

Adamastor laughed. "No, it's more like an arts centre. It attracts people from all corners—musicians, theatre companies, stand-up comedians. The money flows from room rentals, food and beverage sales, ticketing, even booking the space for private events like weddings."

Nord looked overwhelmed for a second. "That sounds like a ton of work."

"It is, but we're a team of four for now, and you can always hire more staff. As long as the Morningstar is up and running, there's a steady inflow of trade and cash."

Nord's eyes drifted as if she was trying to put together a puzzle in her mind. "I should have used the Key of Trade," she mumbled, recalling the cryptic advice from a demon she'd encountered.

Adamastor leaned in, intrigued. "What did you say?"

She snapped back, locking eyes with him. "I think I have a plan."

"And that would be?"

The Morningstar was perhaps just a kilometre away from the town, an easy walk for Nord. What she had yet to anticipate, however, was how bustling the town would be. Streets teemed with people moving in every conceivable direction. Horse-drawn carts navigated the thoroughfares, dodging the occasional parked car.

The commercial vibrancy was palpable—cafés, hair salons, a restaurant, a grocery store, and a pharmacy were among the many businesses lining the streets.

Nord recognized some faces from the funeral, but many were entirely new to her. More intriguing still was the diversity of the townspeople—not all were human. She spotted Nixbobs and Hobruins in the crowd and was taken aback by their towering statures, which she hadn't fully appreciated before.

Other pedestrians were even more enigmatic: some had humanoid faces framed by pronounced deer-like features, complete with antlers and hooves. There were others she couldn't even begin to understand, creatures so foreign they defied description.

As she walked, Nord felt a strange combination of being both an outsider and yet intrinsically tied to this place. The town was a melting pot of species, magic, and commerce, and it dawned on her that perhaps her tattooing art could find a unique home here.

The thought of exchanging bad omens for lucky charms through her work resurfaced, and she felt a newfound confidence. This might just work, she thought to herself, taking in the busy, fantastical life unfolding around her.

The diversity was almost overwhelming—people of all shapes, sizes, and species going about their day as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Which, for them, it probably was.

As Nord walked along, she started picking up the rhythm of the place. The din of conversations, laughter, and the occasional argument filled the air, creating an atmosphere of bustling community. Her eyes wandered across the storefronts, noting that each shop had its own unique charm.

A whimsical sign outside the café read "Café Moonbeam: Where every cup is a potion," while the hairdresser's shop across the street sported a sign declaring "Braids of Beauty."

The pharmacy was easy to find—a tidy establishment painted in soft pastels, where the smell of herbs mingled with a stronger, chemical aroma. The woman behind the counter looked up as she entered.

"New face. What brings you in?" she asked, her eyes sharply appraising yet friendly.

"I need some supplies," Nord replied. "Gloves, cotton, sterilizer, and more."

"Setting up a clinic?"

"Just a shop," Nord answered with a grin. "I'm the new owner of the Morningstar."

"Oh, so you're the one! A friend of Rosemarie's, I presume?"

"In a way," Nord said, her expression clouding momentarily as she thought of the woman she'd never met yet somehow inherited so much from.

The woman gathered the supplies and passed them over the counter.

"You'll need to create an account if you want to charge it to the Morningstar," the pharmacy cashier said, snapping Nord out of her thoughts.

Caught off guard, Nord's eyes widened. She hadn't even considered how she'd pay for the supplies. "How much is it?" she hesitantly asked.

"Three Tokens in total," the cashier replied.

Tokens? Nord had yet to learn how much one Token was worth. "So, if I open a tab, I can pay later?"

"That's what a tab is for!" The cashier gave a reassuring smile.

"Please add it to the tab," Nord said, her voice tinged with shame. She had never found herself in a situation like this before; she'd always had her financial ducks in a row. "Um, I was told to speak with Sirona. Do you know where I can find her?"

"Yeah, the community clinic is two blocks down on your left. You can't miss it," the cashier offered helpfully.

Nord's eyebrows lifted. "I thought she would have a doctor's office or something."

The cashier chuckled. "We have a free community clinic; everyone chips in to keep it running. Sirona isn't the only healer in town. If she had her own office, the poor woman wouldn't have a moment to breathe!"

"Ah, I see," Nord nodded.

Nord ambled down two blocks, absorbing the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the town. She turned left and found a quaint two-story white building adorned with a manicured lawn at the entrance. Despite the absence of any signage, the sterile scent in the air left no room for doubt: this was a health facility.

The waiting room was teeming with beings of all kinds—some Nord couldn't even place a name to. Nurses called out names intermittently, shuffling patients in and out of doors.

Taking advantage of a moment when a nurse wasn't swamped, Nord leaned in. "Hi, good afternoon. Would it be possible to speak with Sirona?"

"Do you mean Doctor Sirona?" the nurse corrected.

Caught off guard, Nord quickly amended, "Yes, Doctor Sirona."

"You'll have to wait. Take a seat," the nurse gestured to the full waiting room, which had no available chairs.

After what felt like an eternity but was really only about twenty minutes, Nord spotted Sirona walking by. She seized the opportunity and approached, "Hi, I'm—"

"Get out!" Sirona's voice pierced the air, cutting Nord off.

Confused and startled, Nord tried to speak, "But, I—"

"Get out of my clinic. Now!" Sirona grabbed Nord by the arms and practically dragged her out the door.

As they stood outside, Nord's mind whirred in disbelief. "What did I—"

"If you need medical care, send someone else to ask for home visits.

You're not coming into my clinic to wreak havoc. There are people in there who are seriously ill and need every ounce of support we can provide," Sirona's voice was icy, her eyes narrowing into slits.

"I don't understand," Nord stammered, her mind racing to catch up. "What did I do?"