Location: Foothills near a town called… Bramblefoot? Gristlewick? Something ending in ‘foot’ or ‘wick’, probably. Close enough to smell dubious street food and hear what sounds suspiciously like goblin arguments. Bliss.
The house decided to rematerialize three days ago, abandoning the briny deep for a lumpy patch of grass overlooking a moderately sized, bustling market town. I haven't decided if this is an improvement. On the one hand: actual earth beneath my feet, breathable air that doesn't taste of salt or require magical circulation, and the potential for fresh supplies that weren't grown in a pot miles above the ground or filtered from the ocean. On the other hand: People. Noise. Smells that aren't fishy but are often equally questionable. And the high probability of needing to interact with said People. Mixed feelings.
Still, needs must. My tea supplies were running dangerously low, the calming tincture experiment wasn’t exactly a roaring success, and I fancied something fresh that didn’t taste faintly of desperation and recycled air. So, today, I ventured out. Into the town. An Occasion.
Preparing for public consumption is always a bloody chore, mostly thanks to the Hair. It hates being constrained. Took nearly an hour to wrestle it into the ‘Semi-Respectable Public Appearance’ braid – a complex seven-strand weave incorporating binding runes and a mild soporific charm woven directly into the strands themselves. It dulls the sentience just enough to (usually) prevent it from trying to independently barter with street vendors, trip annoying children, or braid itself into the beard of a passing dwarf. Even charmed into semi-submission, it hung down my back like a resentful, overly heavy Braid of Holding, occasionally twitching irritably. Glamour charm to ensure I still look vaguely late-twenties instead of ‘ageless entity who might curse your chickens’? Check. Pockets filled with appropriate currency and a few defensive amulets? Check. Deep breath and a muttered curse for luck? Always.
Bramblefoot/Gristlewick/Whatever-it's-called turned out to be… lively. Ramshackle timber buildings leaning at improbable angles, cobblestone streets teeming with a chaotic mix of humans, dwarves polishing their axes outside a tavern, goblins hawking unidentifiable shiny objects, a couple of elegantly bored-looking elves picking through herbs at a stall, even saw what might have been a Centaur arguing with a Halfling over the price of apples. The air smelled of woodsmoke, fried onions, damp wool, ozone from a nearby enchantment shop, and something vaguely sulfurous I decided not to investigate further. Looked like any common market day in any moderately sized town across half a dozen dimensions, really. Seen one, seen 'em all, just with slightly different hats and levels of personal hygiene.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Navigating the crowd was the usual exercise in vigilance. Keeping one eye on where I was going, one ear out for trouble, and a constant low-level magical awareness focused entirely on ensuring the Braid didn't decide to lash out at someone who jostled me. It did manage to subtly snag a bright ribbon off a passing child’s hat – felt the tell-tale tug and subsequent faint magical giggle vibrate up my spine. Ignored it. Easier than causing a scene to return a pilfered ribbon. Child should learn about situational awareness anyway.
Found the tea merchant eventually, tucked between a shop selling slightly-used golem parts and an apothecary whose window display featured far too many pickled things in jars. This merchant was new – a nervous-looking fellow with pointed ears and furred hands, possibly some kind of Faeling crossbreed. He had actual, decent quality Silver Needle tea, though, bless his pointy ears. Managed the transaction without the Hair attempting to pay with interesting pebbles it had collected or trying to 'sample' the merchandise directly from the canister. Success! Also picked up some fresh ginger (not summoned badger variety), actual non-terrified chamomile, and a small wheel of passable goat cheese. Luxury.
Being out was… loud. And busy. And smelly. Mortals bustle so much. Always rushing, always chattering, always haggling over pennies like their short little lives depend on it. Which, I suppose, they sometimes do. Felt a familiar pang – not loneliness, exactly, more… detachment. Like watching ants scurry from a great height. They live, they strive, they die, the town remains (mostly), the market continues. I remain too. Just… longer. Much, much longer.
Got back to the house about an hour ago. The relief of undoing the braid and letting the Hair sprawl across the floor (where it immediately started trying to play with the new ribbon) was immense. Unpacked my treasures. Put the kettle on for real tea. Solid ground is good. Civilization has its uses. But gods, it’s exhausting. Give me a quiet coastline or a boring floating island any day. Almost. Maybe. Ask me again when I run out of cheese.
