Free Web Hosting Provider - Web Hosting - E-commerce - High Speed Internet - Free Web Page

Merchants' Row

The cobblestone streets of the merchants' district were a far cry from the leaf-strewn paths of the forest, but marvels awaited the traveler here as well. After all, Stormpoint was a port city, and wonders from many lands often found their way into the endless rows of shoppes that lined the bustling streets. Finely woven fabrics, expertly crafted weapons, intricate jewelry, custom made clothing, and even those unlooked for items that caught the eye from a open store window . . . anything it was said, could be found within the long line of shoppes that ran from the town center to the docks . . . anything. But whatever your taste, whatever you sought, there were three places you wouldn't want to miss.

Perhaps it was the way the sign creaked ever so slightly as the cool sea air lapped steadily against it. Perhaps it was the way the pale morning light reflected softly from the lettering as the first rays of sunlight crept across the travel-worn cobblestones of the city streets. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that you'd heard at the inn that no matter what you were looking for, no matter how common or unusual the object you sought, you were most likely to find it at the Kuriousity Shoppe.

Openning the door, you were greeted with the sound of chimes, ringing brightly through the shoppe, and a strange sensation that the store was larger on the inside than it was on the outside. Grappling with the mystery of the shoppe's relative size, you began to scrutinize its inventory. Some items were immediately recognizable. Tomes on all subjects and in various languages, some long forgotten, sat neatly in rows of immense wooden shelves. A cherry cabinet, devoted entirely to decorative containers of varying shape, size, and construction, stood just to the side. A sturdy ladder leaning beside the cabinet, and a conspicuously empty space upon the top shelf, suggested a recent purchase. A display case along another wall housed a modest collection of jewelry -- brooches, lapel pins, necklaces, bracelets, rings, cuff links, and even a few diadems bearing unknown insignia.

Other items appeared entirely foreign. A large wooden object composed of extraordinary angles leaned against another object that you could only imagine to be a stand. Smaller objects of similar design rested nearby. To the right, you spotted a rack of tapestries, rich in color and texture. Leafing through the rack, however, you noted that the designs depicted creatures and events with which you were not familiar. Some were enchanting. Others were disturbing. All were breathtaking. Behind the last tapestry you discovered a small, decrepit cabinet holding an assortment of what ostensibly appeared to be . . . dare you say . . . junk -- feathers, pieces of string, bits of metal, leaves, stones, twigs, shards of glass, etc . . . You mulled it over, and decided that "junk" was a generous label indeed.

Suddenly, alert to a set of unseen eyes, you spun quickly around. A large bird, plumed in deepest black, sat perched upon a metal arm protruding from the wall, its eyes fixed upon you, unmoving. Inquisitive, you took a few steps towards it. Was it alive? A sharp squawk followed by a fierce clicking of its rough beak and a ruffling of its dark feathers revealed that it was. Best perhaps to avoid it.

� Crossrhythm, "Raven" (2004)

To the left and rear of the now quite agitated bird, a set of stairs climbed along the back wall from the floor to an empty landing, revealing no evident exit. A small sign scripted in a forceful hand hung from the banisters by a braided cord and advised that there was no admittance to the upper level. As if to emphasize the admonishment, the bird (was it larger now?) dove from its perch and landed squarely atop the banister. It stared darkly as it continued squawking. You could take a hint, and wisely backed away. After a few steps, the bird quieted down and returned to its prior perch with an air of smug satisfaction.

Pivoting towards the front of the shoppe, you were surprised to find the main counter sitting by the entrance. Had it been there before? You didn't think so. At any rate, the counter was bare save for a ledger book, a black quill pen, and a small silver bell. Not yet ready to leave, and not knowing what else to do, you rang the silver bell and waited.

~ by Lady Eowyn's writer

� Robert Chang, "Snow"
As the sound of the bell faded, a woman with decidedly elven features stepped quietly into view. You would recall later that though the shoppe was home to items both familiar and foreign, both commonplace and exceptional, the most curious feature of the establishment was undoubtedly the owner herself -- a woman who answered simply to the name of Eowyn.

Rumors of her history were abundant. Some said she was the last of her kind. Others speculated that she was descended from an ancient and fallen house. Still others labeled her a rogue. The fact that she herself was unwilling, or perhaps unable, to speak either of her nature or her past served only to deepen the shadow of suspicion that trailed silently in her wake.

Towards you, however, she currently appeared hospitable, offering a glimmer of a smile as she approached.

"Elen s�la l�menn omentilmo."

She continued in a more common tongue when you didn't respond.

"Welcome. May I help you?"

Her voice rippled with an unusual accent ... one that you couldn't place ... and her eyes reflected the self-imposed solitude of one who had amassed too much knowledge. The combination was somewhat unsettling. When you mumbled something about having been lost in the woods, however, your discomfit increased as you found yourself suddenly beneath the sharp gaze of shoppekeep. Her eyes, dark already, seemed to grow impossibly darker as her stare deepened, passing from sable, to ebony, to a shade that knew no name, even as present slipped silently into past. And when they passed from this velvet hue to the next, you began to believe that the shoppekeeper wasn't so much looking at you, as she was through you, and you wondered what it was she saw that brought the fey look to her face. Then, finally ... mercifully, she blinked.
Like water upon stones, the gliding sweep of her lids washed the shadow from her eyes, returning them to a normal color as her expression similarly softened into one that might have been concern. You sought to ask her what was wrong, but she was already stepping away from you and towards one of the many cabinets that lined the walls of the shoppe. It took her but scant moments to find what she sought, and when she returned she was holding an amulet of arcane design.

Handing it to you, she said simply, "Take this. You may have need of it."

Her tone and demeanor made it clear that no further explanation would be forthcoming, and so you thanked her and accepted the gift, leaving the shoppe grateful, but more confused than when you'd entered.
� Stephanie Lostimolo, "Talisman"

The subdued ringing of chimes alerted the clinic's attendant of your arrival. The tidy little building was warmly lit and furnished hospitably. Behind the old fashioned marble counter were many shelves, lined with tiny bottles filled with liquids and powders. Colorful liquids distilled fragrantly over burners in the back room. Customers may find creams to soften their skin, fragrant rinses for their hair and other quaint items. People came here for herbs and simples to aid in headaches, fevers and daily ailments. Children would leave with a stick of candy and a kiss on the head. Some would come only for a cure for their troubled minds, knowing that they would receive a listening ear and a promise of silence. Sometimes, the night had played its cruel trick and a man or woman was brought to her, broken, wounded, perhaps dying. They were placed in the curtained examination room on a soft table. Her commands to her attendant were curt and precise, saving her reassuring smiles for the wounded. Her gentle, competent hands tried to hold death at bay until the sun could rise.

~ by Cymbyliene's writer

� Jonathon Earl Bowser, "Earth Autumn Winter" (1994)
Cymbyliene left her last residence out of pure restlessness, according to the tale she tells most. Her dark eyes tell you that there is more to the tale, and that on some lamplit evening, you might coax the secret memories from her. Her auburn hair ripples down around a pale, young face that contrasts with the quiet, gentle grace she exhibits. Her hands have delivered infants and held the hands of dying men. For all her competence, she does have a light spirit and loves to laugh.

Cym has a secret desire for adventure, and Stormpoint looked to be a place where she might find it. She is very alone, but she isn't afraid, even perhaps, when she should be. Her hidden weakness is a desire to experience a "grand passion" once in life, which leaves her vulnerable to rogues. Her eyes scan the evening from her shop window and she longs to run out into the darkness and explore......

In the middle of the merchants' row, there sat a small shop with crooked windows. The glass in the windows was thick and rippled with age and you had to peer closely to glimpse what was within. But that glimpse was worth it.

Marionettes on strings hung with smiles on carved faces. Stuffed animals with glittering bead eyes lined one shelf. Dolls with curli-cues of real hair sat prim and proper on one cabinet. A bin by the door was full of balls - big ones, small ones, every color of the rainbow. Paint sets, toy trains, pogo sticks, hula hoops..all there. Exotic toys as well, from far away lands, that had to come with instructions just so you knew how to play them.

A wizened old woman tottered behind the counter, carefully painting a face on a marionette. Her eyes were squinty with failing vision and her hair was a mixture of steel grey and white. If she saw you, she would smile and wave and then point upstairs. Because if you were not here to see her or the toys, she thought you were here to see Gabrielle. The Malkavian vampire had happily ensconced herself in the loft above the Stormpoint toy shop. You might want to visit her there. She's probably looking for someone to play checkers with.

~ by Gabrielle's writer

� Jonathon Earl Bowser, "Ophelia" (1991)
If Ophelia wandered out of the pages of Hamlet and were given fangs and the eyes of a vampire, you would have Gabrielle.

Malkavian's are always insane, 'tis the curse of their blood line and Gabrielle is no different. Inherently nervous upon first meeting, caution can give way to terror or to childlike trust.

Long hair is bedecked with small braids woven with ribbon. Her hair, like her mind, can rarely make a decision and it falls in golden, dark brown, and auburn waves over her narrow shoulders.

The movement of her arms brings the jingle and jangle of a dozen or so silver and gold bracelets. She smiles at you and surpresses a giggle. She chews her lip. One finger points outward toward you as she approaches. She calmly touches your nose. "Beep." and skitters off, laughing.

"We're all trying to strike a balance between a whisper and a scream"

~ Pam Tillis "Whisper and a Scream"

The steady tolling of a church bell drew you towards the Cathedral.

Care to consult your ?

� 1999 Stormpoint Writers Guild
All rights reserved

Graphics on this page provided by:

Crossrhythm