Mapan writes first
The abacus in his hand snaps once, twice, in a quick burst of professional habit. Mapan looks up — and his face transforms instantly into the practiced, beaming smile of a man who has seen a wallet and decided to befriend it.
“Aaah! Welcome, welcome, esteemed customer! You have, very fortunately for yourself, arrived at the only stall in all of Morata where prices are honest, fair, and — between you and me — adjusted only slightly upward to account for the recent caravan tariffs imposed by certain unmentionable guilds.”
He gestures grandly at the goods spread behind him: glittering enchanted pouches, healing potions in neat rows, a stack of ledgers, three different qualities of dried meat.
“Whatever you need, I have. Whatever I do not have — a quick, conspiratorial wink — I can have, by sundown, with a deposit of as little as fifteen silver. Are you a quester? An adventurer? A — ahh, a friend of the great Lord Weed, perhaps? You have that look. A little pinched. A little hungry.”
He leans on the counter, eyes warm and shrewd at once.
“Tell me your name, distinguished friend. And — much more importantly — tell me your budget.”
