Nord's eyes darted from the ornate leather chair to the two men who were cautiously unloading it from the cart with the aid of Adamastor. Her gaze finally settled on the woman in a beige blouse and high-waist skirt—Sirona, standing with an air of subdued exhaustion.

"I heard you needed a chair," Sirona spoke first, her eyes purposefully avoiding Nord's.

"I'm not sick," Nord retorted, crossing her arms defensively.

Sirona sighed, "You do look tired, though."

Nord's eyes narrowed. "You look like you haven't seen a bed in centuries."

The comment hung in the air, heavy and unspoken. Sirona met her gaze for the first time, vulnerability breaching the stoic wall she'd built around herself.

"I deserve that," she finally admitted, "and you deserve an apology."

They stood in a charged silence, two women caught in a web of unspoken tension. Nord's eyes were a piercing dark abyss, relentless and probing. Sirona looked away, the weight of her own shame pulling her gaze to the ground.

"It would be custom to let me in for a tea," suggested Sirona.

"Really?" Nord uncrossed her arms, "Tea?"

"I can't undo what I've done," Sirona said softly, a brittle edge in her voice. "But the chair, it's a start. A poor one, maybe, but it's something."

Nord eyed the chair, then back to Sirona. "So, a chair's supposed to make everything alright? A 'sit down, shut up, and let the grown-ups talk' kind of peace offering?"

"Not at all," Sirona replied, "It's an olive branch. A hope for a new start. I... I'm not good at this, but I want to make things right."

Nord scoffed, her eyes still hard. "Make things right? You've got an odd way of showing it."

The tension was a live wire between them, humming and volatile. Sirona hesitated, taking a deep breath as if gathering the shreds of her composure.

"I was wrong, Nord. I didn't give you a chance to talk. I... I acted out of line, and for that, I'm truly sorry. Your life, your decisions, they're yours to make. I had no right to push you out like that and bark at you as I did."

Nord's face remained a guarded mask, yet the tiniest flicker of something—perhaps acceptance, perhaps a chance —flashed in her eyes.

"Tea, you said?" Nord finally broke the silence, a cautious note in her voice.

"Yes, tea," Sirona replied, her eyes meeting Nord's for the first time without flinching away, "Or any sort of hot beverage. Beggars can't be choosers.'

As Nord guided Sirona into her kitchen, the heavy scent of old dust and freshly ground herbs melded in the air. Finnea and Kirara were heaving crates from one side of the room to the other, the thud of wood reverberating with each drop.

Sirona eyed the activity, intrigued. "What's going on? You moving or something?"

Nord pushed the creaky door open further, gesturing for Sirona to proceed. "Revamping, actually. Making this place my own."

Nord placed a well-worn kettle over the stove's low flame. With practised ease, she reached for a couple of ceramic mugs and spooned tea leaves into them. Sirona watched, entranced by the familiarity in Nord's movements.

Sirona broke the silence. "So, why the elaborate chair in a place like this? It doesn't exactly scream 'general store.'"

Nord chuckled. She rolled up her sleeve and stretched out her forearm with a deft movement, revealing intricate ink patterns that weaved and danced on her skin. "I'm a tattoo artist."

Sirona blinked, lost for words for a moment. "Why? I mean, why not paint on a canvas, paper or something?"

Nord poured hot water into the mugs, her eyes glinting. "Tattoos are more than just marks. They're stories, memories, victories. Each design is like a secret, whispered only to the living canvas it's drawn upon. No two are ever the same, and they last until maggots eat their skin."

Sirona considered this as she watched the tea steep, its colour deepening like a setting sun. "I guess I can see the appeal. But Ravendrift? People here wouldn't line up for tattoos. Too much fodder for gossip."

Nord carried both mugs to a worn wooden table and set one in front of Sirona. "Well, what if it were like a little secret talisman? You bring me a cursed object, and in return, I give you a tattoo that serves as a lucky charm."

"Like a lucky charm? Could you cover it up?"

Nord leaned in, a playful smile curling the corners of her mouth. "It could be such a secret that only someone truly intimate with you would ever know it's there."

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Sirdona wrapped her hands around the warm mug, savouring the comforting heat. She took a careful sip and met Nord's eyes. "You might be onto something. A touch of luck never hurt anyone."

Nord's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "I'd need to consult with The Merlin, get some design ideas, and maybe tweak them for individual tastes." A smirk danced briefly across her lips. "Been a while since I put pen to paper."

Sirdona chuckled. "Ah, Merlin would jump at the chance. The old coot loves to mingle in everyone’s business."

Nord set her mug down, her curiosity piqued. "Do you know where I could find him?"

"He's holed up on the outskirts of town next to Mme Bougie in a shack that looks like it might come down any moment. They say he’s taken in the demon boy too,” Sirdona offered, leaning in as if sharing a secret.

Nord frowned, visibly upset. "Why hasn't he moved to a better place? Haven't people offered to help?"

Sirdona shook her head, her expression a mix of resignation and pity. "We've tried. Atua knows we have. Ever since he came from Onyxburg, he’s been a recluse. Doesn't want to move a muscle. And he's not exactly in the prime of life."

"Is he ill?" Nord pressed.

"No, just old," Sirdona clarified, sipping her tea again.

"And you say this is near Mme Bougie's place?"

"Right by it. Though I'd advise caution if you’re going that way," Sirdona added, setting down her mug.

Nord raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

Sirdona leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Mme Bougie's is a brothel, and the clientele is, well, less than genteel. If I were you, I'd steer clear of the establishment entirely."

Nord glanced towards the crates that Finnea and Kirara were still moving. A thought occurred to her. "What if you could give me a ride?"

Sirdona raised an eyebrow, a little surprised. "You're eager to go today?"

"The sooner I get my designs and tools sorted, the sooner I can get the Morningstar up and running. Time's money, as they say."

Sirdona considered this for a moment, finishing off her tea and setting the mug down with a decisive clank. "Alright, when you're ready to go, we go. I definitely can give you a ride to see our favourite wizard in town."

----------------------------------------

Nord stepped out of Sirdona's wagon, her boots crunching on the gravelly path. She looked up at the dilapidated building, its combination of brick and wood appearing as though they were waging a war against time—and losing. Sirdona hadn't exaggerated; the place looked ready to collapse.

Taking a deep breath, Nord approached the crooked front door. She raised her hand to knock but hesitated when she realized the door was slightly ajar. With a tentative push, the door creaked open, revealing the interior.

As she stepped inside, her heart sank further. The wallpaper, once perhaps pleasant, was now torn and peeling, clinging to the walls as if begging for a reprieve. Time-worn furniture sat forlornly around the room, its wood splintered and fabric tattered. Debris littered the floor, and the air was thick with dust, casting a murky haze that caught the sparse light filtering through the grimy windows.

"Hello? Mr. Merlin?" Nord's voice echoed through the space, tentative yet laced with an undercurrent of concern.

For a moment, there was only the haunting silence, filled by the whispers of the dilapidated house. Then, a faint reply came from somewhere deeper in the maze of rooms—a raspy voice tinged with curiosity and fatigue.

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

Nord felt her pulse quicken. Gathering her courage, she walked further into the gloom. "Mr. Merlin, it’s Nord. I’ve come to ask your help… for an idea."

"Take your shoes off!" said the voice echoing.

"What?"

"Take your shoes off!"

Nord hesitated at the gruff command echoing through the house. "Take my shoes off? Here?"

"Do as I say!" The voice grew impatient.

Holding back a grimace, Nord gingerly unlaced her boots. With a deep breath, she set her foot on the seemingly dirty floor—and suddenly, everything changed. Like a piece of magical origami unfolding, the shabby room transformed. Luxurious furniture now adorned the space, elegant drapes hung from the windows, and intricate patterns adorned the wallpaper. The chandelier overhead caught her eye; even the flames dancing on the candles seemed artfully symmetrical.

"Wow," she breathed out.

"I had the same reaction the first time," came a voice from behind her.

Spinning around, she finally saw him - Baal. His eyes held a mischievous darkness, like a night sky dotted with a single, glimmering star. His loosely draped red hair barely touched his bare shoulders.

He wore nothing but pyjama pants, and Nord found herself captivated by his physique. It was as if she were staring at a walking work of Renaissance art, each muscle perfectly carved yet soft to the eye.

"Eyes up here," he chided, holding back a chuckle.

"You're the one walking around half-naked," she retorted, flustered.

"I'm in my own home," he said, arching an eyebrow. "You're the outsider."

"Uh, I'm here to speak with Mr. Merlin," she managed to stammer, forcibly dragging her gaze upward.

"He’s in his room. Follow me." He turned and began walking, beckoning her to come along.

As she followed, Nord couldn't help but notice the tattoos on Baal's back. They looked like the work of an apprentice, with poorly executed lines and incorrectly applied shadows. Some seemed unfinished as if someone had started them but never bothered to complete the design. It looked like distracted doodles more than intentional art.

Nord felt a surge of horror and curiosity—how could anyone subject themselves to such amateurish work, and who would be cruel enough to inflict it? Her professional eye started calculating how to perform cover-ups to conceal each disastrous mark.

The room Baal led her to was a departure from the opulence they'd just walked through. This was a sanctuary of a different sort: no lavish upholstery or intricate wallpapers, but instead, walls lined with shelves upon shelves of empty glass jars. Each jar uniquely caught the candlelight, refracting the glow into a dance of shimmering lights that played upon the room's surfaces. It was both surreal and oddly serene.

"You okay?" Baal asked, catching Nord's bewildered expression.

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, still trying to make sense of the room. But before she could delve deeper into her thoughts, an older man was lying on his bed.

"Miss Morningstar," he rasped, his voice tinged with a curiosity that seemed honed over many years. "Baal said you have something important to discuss. Come in, child!"

"Yes, Mr. Merlin," Nord replied, instantly respectful yet enthusiastic. "I'm setting up a tattoo shop. I hear you're the man to speak to about designs—ones that could be more than mere ink on skin."

"Ah, tattoos," Merlin mused. "The language of the soul written on the canvas of the body. What are you hoping to accomplish, young lady?"

"It's not just about aesthetics. It's about giving people something they're missing. It could be luck, courage, or even a hidden secret translated into charms or signets... a tiny spell. I want these tattoos to mean something. I want them to actually do something as well."

Merlin studied her for a long moment, his eyes probing as if trying to read the sincerity etched into her own features. Finally, he nodded, "I'm not the right wizard for that."