The sun was setting on another restless day in the port city of Amhull. The many sectors of the city began to quiet down, starting with the Government District which saw most politicians and affiliated personnel had left for the day perhaps hours ago; only a few guards remained to patrol the cobble streets wearing their polished armors and austere scowls. The Shipyard and Port District seemed quieter than usual as well. Where there would surely be a muffled, raucous cacophony coming from the scattered taverns and pubs that lined the shores and docksides, there were only a few mumbling voices to accompany the quiet pping of rippling waves against the many ships that line the seawalls. The water glistened with rose and goldenrod hues projected by the setting sun which kept a bashful yet tired watch over the city.
Amhull was not often a quiet city, especially in the Market District which normally boasted incessant chatter of negotiations, salutations, excmations and, at times, subjugations. But on this evening, it too was retively quiet. The Market District was made up of tents and verandas attached to wooden stall fixtures that spanned across the entire district. The upside to this Market Square, aside from its exceptional variety and abundance of sellers, was that you could walk for what felt like miles down rows of stalls and never once be trapped in the sunlight’s harshest embrace for thanks to these tossed about tents and verandas overhead. The smells of spices, herbs, cured meats, tonics and ales always permeated the air, trapped under the shaded canopies of the stalls. A few slits and holes cleverly pced in a stall’s canopy by the crafty salespeoples to illuminate brilliantly shiny trinkets, jewelry and decorative pieces was often enough to make the deal of the day.
Many of the stalls were occupied by travelling sellers who would set up shop in any avaible area they could find, which was often very sparce and in high demand. Some sellers did so well that they simply stayed and made their living in the city itself, while others would rent out their space or pack up and restock on their inventories. For this reason, many strange and scandalous things could occur in the Market District. It was seldom patrolled by guards or government officials as it was seen to be too “dirty and conniving” (this according to one Thelovius Prattlefitt III, a high-ranking judiciary member of the second court of Amhull’s Government District).
Despite the ck of government supervision and the occasional delinquent dealer, the Market Square seemed to run rather smoothly from day to day. Buyers were cautious and often learned quickly how to negotiate, while most sellers were really only in it to make a living the only way they knew how. The Market District was furthest away from the sea-side of the city, closer to the mainnd which gave way to dirt-paved roads, sprawling grassy knolls, plentiful tall dark treelines that beckoned only the most daring into the nearby forests and woods that scattered and surrounded much of this side of the city.
The Outskirts of Amhull were treacherous at times, especially at nights. If it isn’t the twitchy-eyed crooks and skeeves that get you, it’s surely some ravenous beast or carnival of carnivorous creatures that would. Travelling salespeoples would only set to path that way if it were early morning, or if there were at least a sliver of sun in the sky. The edge of the Market District was open to any and all to enter as they pleased, while the rest of Amhull was sealed tightly by rge buildings, fortified walls, and of course, the sea itself on one side entirely. Such an inviting venue can prove to be quite the gamble at times, as one never knew who (or what) may make themselves present in this part of the city.
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One such character made his way to the city some decades ago. A young drow man with pale ste blue colored skin, long white hair that was unkempt even in the makeshift bun he pinched it up in, came up with a cart and a mule. He entered this bustling market square with eager eyes and a seemingly confident smile, as he set up his stall from his cart, just on the edge of the market canopies. The young drow brought out some trunks and chests filled with all sorts of vials and bottles. The bottles were filled with strange colors and textures, floating around inside of it sometimes swirling around as if alive. None of the bottles or vials had any sort of decorative or official bels on them. He simply spped a piece of papyrus paper on them (he had so ripped it less than delicately from a rger sheet from the looks of it) and scribbled a name on the makeshift bel. “Rose’s Kiss”, “Devil’s Passion”, “Cupid’s Caress”, “Cherry Laxative”, just to name a few.
There were not many who entered or exited from the Outskirts side of the city so he did not have as much foot traffic as he would have liked. But nonetheless, he made some sales from time to time. Each day he would completely undo his cart-stall, pcing all the bottles and vials neatly in their chests and locking them up in a sliding door compartment at the base of the rge cart. He would feed his mule, pitch a simple tent and sleep until the next day. He would wake before the sun first shown each morning, pce the bottles and vials back out on the stand, and repeat the process each day. Occasionally, he would have to go into the market square to buy some essentials like food and drink for he and his mule, but he seldom spent his coin.
As word got around about his tinctures and tonics, which according to anonymous sources were truly miraculous in how well they worked, more patrons made their way toward his cart to offer him more sales. As he made more sales, he made more money but still only spent a small, finite amount on essentials. One evening while packing up per his routine, a seller from a nearby tent (a local and Amhull-born human man) walked up to the young drow man. The seller asked him what was his end goal, what did he want in this life. The young drow smiled and simply pointed just beyond the seller’s right shoulder. Behind the seller was a dipidated old shack of a building which wasn’t used by insects or vermin as cover from the rainiest of nights. One month ter, the young drow bought that shack. With the leftover money he saved, he hired some men and resources to fix up the shack until it had an acceptable roof. He wheeled his cart inside and set up shop as he normally did outside. The st bit of business he tended to was that of his mule, which he sold for less than what the beast of burden was probably worth, bought a rge wooden pquard, and created a sign over his shop. It read: “The Alchemist of Amhull”.
As years went on, the drow man saw business grow at exponential rates. The squatty old shack became a two-story building with shelves that reached from floor to ceiling lined with surpluses of tinctures, tonics and anything the Alchemist of Amhull could concoct. It was the most successful shop in the Market District for years. And for years, the drow man always did two things. First, he would go to the shops in the Market District to purchase goods and services from the vendors. He would spend plentiful amounts of coin in the Market as a way to give back to those whose business he may be diluting. He was always very kind and generous in this way. Second, he would always offer free samples to accredited vendors (these were the select vendors who came with District credentials, acquired by the local Market Masters). The Market Masters were established by the Alchemist and some of the local vendors as a way to vet and protect many of the travelling and year-round sellers. A few select individuals would be pced in charge of processing and approving vendors as they arrived. The Alchemist insisted that this process be done for free for all, whether first-time selling or renewing for your hundredth year.
The Market District and the Alchemist shop saw success unlike anything they could have imagined. For years, they prospered and brought in rge amounts of buyers and sellers alike. The Alchemist, now entering his mid-thirties had hired people to work the shop for him as he hibernated to his alchemist b, in a rge basement section under the shop. He would stay in that room for days, sometimes weeks and never come out for food or drink or sleep. His employees would simply show up, make sales, and leave. They always made sure to lock up as they left each night.
One day, as the employees opened the shop doors, the Alchemist was sitting in the middle of the entry room, one leg crossed over the other. His hands were folded together except for both pointer fingers which stuck up like a church steeple, disappearing into a beard he had grown over the years. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, but his mind was clearly somewhere far beyond. The employees just stood in silence as they looked at the preoccupied drow and the rest of the shop around them. The entirety of the shop had been destroyed. Bottles and vials and décor all tossed around the floors. The walls were covered with hacks and sshes, the end result of mindless weapons swinging against carefully stocked shelves. It was clear to the employees that the shop had been ransacked by bandits and ruffians.
It was then that the employees noticed the doors to the basement alchemy b had been completely destroyed, though they knew not the state of the basement itself. In the end, they hadn’t the stomach to go down and see for themselves. The Alchemist finally shook back to reality and looked up at his employees. A streak of dried blood that trailed down his forehead to his chin made some of his long, wiry hair stick to his face. His eyes began to swell with tears, though not a single one escaped down his cheeks as he stood up and swiftly strode towards the employees. Stretching out his arms, he walked in brisk silence as he forcibly guided them back out the door from where they had entered. The employees turned as they found themselves at the foot of the steps leading up to the rge shop doors, seeing the drow Alchemist in the fullest color they had seen him in years. His eyes were bloodshot and fixed in a horrifying, bulging stare. His head cocked upwards, but his stare bearing down with force and an almost humble reverence towards the employees. Almost immediately, the doors smmed shut as locks could be heard clicking behind them.
The employees never went back into the shop as ter that day they noticed the windows, doors and everything about the shop had been boarded up from the inside. No light or signs of life could be seen or heard from within. Years went by and the once illustrious Alchemist shop began to turn back to the state it was first founded in. The wooden boards began to rot. The roofing began to chip and fall away. The walls became ecosystems for wild, vining pnt life all around. The Alchemist was not seen or heard from again. It was said once that in the dead of night strange lights could be seen flickering from smalls cracks and crevices of the boards and broken walls of the shop. This tale was told by a young boy, not even reached his teen years, to some of the local vendors. Nobody believed this story and it was passed off nothing more than a ghost story. The Market Masters fizzled out of existence as the years crept on, with no one to give them direction or encouragement. The Market District carried on as it once had, but the light of the Alchemist that once touched the markets and its inhabitants had been snuffed out years ago.
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As the sun was now almost completely hidden behind the curtain of sea beyond the city, the Market District was now the quietest it had ever been, save for the sparce squeaking of twitchy rats or the soft coo of an evening dove on a nearby clothesline. At this moment, everything seemed to stand completely still. This stillness stayed for some time, until bounding out of the forest came a figure dawned in a raggedy dark cloak. The figure was sprinting at full pace directly towards the abnormally quiet Market District. They hugged their cloak tightly around their shoulders as they ran, as if shielding themselves from a rain that did not fall. Their hood fell low over their face, which they did not seem to even lift as they ran towards the Market District.
The hooded figure, still at full pace made its way up to the edge of the market stalls and, without stopping, turned a sharp left directly for the rge, abandoned building once inhabited by a great Alchemist not so many years ago. The figure sprang up the steps leading to the warped front doors of the old shop and paused only a moment to catch a breath. Withdrawing only one hand from the tightly wrapped cloak, the figure pounded on the doors which were in no state to open or welcome any visitors. The figure rapped loudly and assertively on the doors five times. Then, with the same hand used to knock on the door, reached into a pocket inside the cloak. The hand reemerged from the cloak with something not visible to the naked eye. The figure bent down towards the ground, and made a sprinkling motion with its hand across the door lining. Standing back up, the figure quickly rapped two final times loudly on the door before turning heel into full sprint back into the woods where it emerged.
As the footsteps of the strange figure, disappeared in the distance, the doors of the old Alchemist shop lie silent, never answering the emphatic knocks from the stranger. The sky began to darken into night, some clouds began to roll in over the forests and seascapes. Some light rolls of thunder filled the new night sky as rain began to softly patter and build over the city of Amhull. The rain and winds picked up in intensity as a storm tore through the city of Amhull that night. By the next morning, the storm had subsided, giving way to a beautiful dewy sunrise.
The dockworkers made their way out to the ships to clear masts and riggings of any debris. The government officials and their personnel made their way to their offices and posts to begin another tumultuous day of taxable affairs. The city guards changed out from evening shift to morning shift, most of them having been cooped up inside all night due to the storm. As a few morning guards patrolled the streets, they couldn’t help but notice a quiet air surrounding the city. As they made their way towards the direction of the Market District, they realized quickly why the city seemed so silent. The Market District was completely empty. Vacant stalls and canopied structures lie dormant and unattended. No goods or services in sight. No negotiations or haggling business to be heard. Not a single soul could be sensed or seen in the entire district which seemed to span for miles. And the doors of the once great Alchemist shop were shattered and crumpled in a pile on the ground…
