Only a single customer meandered around the full shelves of Dragon’s Essence Apocrathy, picking up vials to inspect their contents, sniffing at the bountiful selection of fauna, and prodding the displays of animal parts. But most importantly, not buying anything.
The moment he had entered Marjorie had greeted him with a hearty welcome and offered her vast services, to which he had the audacity to respond with a simple: “Just looking, thanks.” As if he knew what he needed. Marjorie doubted the man even could tell the difference between a simple fire melon leaf and a ginseng root, let alone their individual applications.
As he prodded a bowl full of wolves’ teeth, Marjorie bit down on her tongue. ‘Let him browse’, she told herself. After all, every potential customer was just a sale waiting to be plucked, and these days there seemed to be less and less of either. Ever since Gruzbolt moved in across the street.
Marjorie restated the urge to spit on the floor at the thought of that weasel’s name. That charlatan, who sold cobbled together machinations as though they were the answer to everything.
Making sure to keep herself looking busy, she stepped behind the store's counter and began reshuffling the displays. The counter was the room's centerpiece after all, it needed to be presented as such. It had been intricately carved from an ancient redwood tree-ent, who had been felled after they had attempted to attack the small town many years ago. It’s face was displayed across the front, frozen in a furious scowl. Carved into the countertop and inlaid with gold leaf were various symbols for the apocrathic arts, as well as a few covering divination and one that was placed directly center for transmutation. That one was absolutely useless. An almost forgotten pseudoscience that snake oil salesman used to peddle. But it had somehow become the most recognizable symbol of anyone selling apothecary and so there it was, right in the center, so everyone could see.
A tiny bell rang as Bronwyn, her daughter, entered the shop. In her early twenties, she was tall and lithe. A picture of what Marjorie once looked like, with long auburn hair and her father’s ice-blue eyes. Though Marjporie wished she would dress even a slight bit more modestly. She often looked as though she had come straight off the docks after pillaging a village. But that was what everyone was wearing nowadays, and like it or not, Marjorie had to let her be her own woman.
In her arms, Bronwyn carried her son, Cain. A solid boy who was the spitting image of his woodsman father. There was no doubt that he would grow up one day to be a great hero of the land. For now though, he still needed to have his pants changed.
There was a troubled look on Bronwyn’s face as she strode across the apothecary. “Ahh, mom. Have you been outside recently?”
“No,” replied Marjorie. “I have important customers, I don’t have time to bother myself with the goings on of anyone not inside the store.”
“Then you haven’t seen it.”
“Seen what?” This vagueness was beginning to irk Marjorie.
Bronwyn took her by the sleeve and ushered her towards the door. “Just come look.”
“I hope this is important. What if-” All her thoughts were cut off at once by an intense sense of dread, or maybe rage. Right then she wasn’t so sure.
Across the street were at least six people, all looking in the window of Gruzbolt’s shop Curios and Wonders. People who, Marjoire decided, would be much better suited in her store. There was a large wooden sign sitting just forward of the door that read in large white letters:
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO ANIMAL WASTE IN OUR PRODUCTS UNLIKE THE COMPETITION.
Animal waste? Competition? “Are you serious?” Rage. It was definitely rage.
“Now mom, just hold on a second.” Bronwyn tried to hold her back, but was shrugged off as Marjoirie stormed across the cobblestone road.
She almost threw one bystander out of her way as he pushed through the door, barely hearing the wee jingle that played as she entered. The store was filled to the brim with customers, her customers, each of them closely inspecting the various mechanical contraptions the goblin owner had crafted. Around her the noise of things that dinged, ticked, clicked, and fizzed collided with the general sounds of delight.
Right in the center stood Gruzbolt, balancing on a chair as to be seen. His small stature meant that even at his full height he was still the size of a child. He was in the middle of demonstrating one of his Ludacris inventions when he spotted Marjorie. A sly, toothy grin stretched across his moss green face. His long pointy ears jiggled in delight.
“I see even you have come to see my magical wares,” he called over the noise of the crowd.
“Don’t fool yourself,” she snided in retort, pushing her way forward until she was eye to eye with the little sneak. “How dare you tell people that I put poop in my potions!”
“I’m sorry, tell people what?” he turned his head in a motion to hear her better.
“That I put poop in my potions!”
His eyes widened in feigned shock. “Did you all hear that? She puts poop in her potions!” murmurs and gasps rustled around the crowd.
“That’s not what I said.”
“That’s exactly what you said. I’ll have everyone know that I do not put poo in my designs. They are waste free and safe for everyone.”
“My potions are safe for everyone!”
Bronwyn, finally caught up, latched on tightly to her mothers arm and pulled her towards the door. “Come on, you're not making it better.”
“But my potions are safe! There’s no poo in them.”
The crowd was no longer listening. Gruzbolt was distracting them with a brightly glowing bauble he was juggling around his palm.
Outside, Marjorie kicked the sign into the road. “He can't do this. There has to be some law against this sort of defamation.”
“I don’t think there’s anything in the village that says he can’t write whatever he wants on a sign.”
“Then we’ll get our own sign,” schemed Marjorie. “We’ll write that he eats pets, or uses the blood of children to oil his crap, or…”
“Let’s just get rid of this before anyone else sees it,” said Bronwyn, hefting up the sign and dragging it towards their shop.
Marjorie's mind was so full of plotting her revenge that when she strode back inside she almost didn’t notice that the customer was still there, prodding and sniffing at her items. Part of her wanted to throw him out so she could continue plotting, but her sensible side overruled the other. A customer was still a customer after all. At least one person either hadn’t seen the sign, or common sense had won and they had recognized it as a lie. Either way there was still hope.
After poking around a few more items the gentleman finally approached Marjorie at the counter. She forced herself to beam at him.
“Hello dear, how can I help you?” She asked in her sweetest grandmother voice.
Looking a little sheepish and glancing over his shoulder towards Bronwyn he spoke in a quiet voice. “Ah, could you tell me which items have the poop in them?”