I, [Lessee’s Name], hereby agree to rent one (1) Never-Extinguishing Lantern from [Lessor’s Name]. under the following terms:
RENTAL PERIOD:
- Duration: [X] days
- Start Date: [Date]
- Return Date: [Date]
- Daily Rate: 10 Copper
- Security Deposit: 1 Silver (refundable upon return)
TERMS & CONDITIONS:
- Renter agrees to return the lantern in the same condition as received
- Lantern must be kept dry and handled with reasonable care
- Do not attempt to disassemble or modify the lantern
- Feed lantern one (1) vial of provided luminescence solution every 30 days
- Do not expose lantern to extreme heat or cold
FAILURE TO RETURN:
- If lantern is not returned by agreed date, daily late fee of 5 Copper applies
- After 7 days of non-return, security deposit is forfeit
- After 14 days, full replacement cost of 10 Silver will be charged
- Renter agrees to pay any collection fees if legal action becomes necessary
DAMAGE POLICY:
- Minor damage: Up to 30 Copper deducted from deposit
- Major damage: Full deposit forfeit
- Complete destruction: Full replacement cost (10 Silver) plus handling fees
By signing below, renter acknowledges understanding and acceptance of these terms.
Lessee’s Signature: ________________
Guild Rank: ________________
Registration Number: ________________
Lessor’s signature: ________________
Date: ________________
[Official Seal of Ironweave Commerce Guild]
Every step the orc priest took made Thadan wince—not because the massive holy man might break their newly cleaned floors, but because each creak seemed to draw his face into deeper levels of skepticism. By the time he reached the water stains near the foundation, his expression had evolved from doubtful to actively suspicious to something Thadan had previously only seen on Ms. Thornberry’s face when he tried to expense dragon-hunting supplies for a rat-catching job.
“My party’s artificer warned me about buying magical items from unknown merchants.”
“Completely understandable. Which is why we’re not selling—just renting. And look.” Thadan pulled out an official-looking document. “We’ve got proper contracts, guild registra— everything completely legitimate.”
“Hm.” The orc squinted at the paper. “These terms seem... reasonable.”
“Ten copper per day is practically giving them away. But we’re new to the area, trying to build a reputation.”
“And this... luminescence solution?”
“Proprietary blend. Helps maintain the enchantment’s stability. For two days you won’t need it, but I’ll throw in a vial just in case. You know how dungeon expeditions can go.” Thadan winked with the confidence of someone who’d never successfully winked in his life. “Am I right?”
“I am conducting an official inspection, not some foolhardy treasure hunt,” the orc grunted.
“Of course, of course. My apologies. Now, if I could just get your name for the contract?”
“Othh’nam’?b-Br?ghan M?zg’rg-U’fthgarz.”
Thadan’s quill froze mid-stroke. “I... uh...”
“It means ‘He Who Speaks Truth to Morning Stars’ in the ancient tongue.”
“Right. Look, can I just call you ‘Othh?’”
The orc’s citrus complexion turned almost crimson. “That would bring dishonor to seven generations of my bloodline.”
“Seven generations. Of course.” Thadan dipped his quill again. “Let me just get this exactly right then. Wouldn’t want to misrepresent any ancestors.” He squinted at the parchment. “Pardon, but is that with two apostrophes or three?”
“Each apostrophe represents a sacred battle where my ancestors proved their worth through honorable combat.”
“So... three?”
“Four, actually. The third one is silent.”
“Naturally.” Thadan’s quill scratched carefully across the parchment. “And the circumflex over the ‘?’?”
“Represents the tears of our enemies.”
“Just checking.” Thadan finished writing with a flourish. “Now, just to confirm rental duration—you said forty-eight hours?”
“Two days should suffice for initial assessment.”
“Perfect. Sign here, and... here. And don’t worry about the feeding schedule for such a short rental. Though as I mentioned, I’ve included a vial of solution, just in case anything unexpected—”
“Nothing unexpected will occur during a routine cave inspection.”
“Of course not. My mistake.” Thadan stamped the contract and handed over the lantern. “Pleasure doing business with you.”
The orc cradled the lantern with surprising gentleness. He gave a formal bow and departed, making the floorboards protest one final time.
Thadan watched him go, then carefully filed away their first completed rental agreement.
He exhaled, rubbing his tired eyes. A single rental was a modest start, but his throat was raw from countless sales pitches to dubious adventurers. His legs ached from patrolling the Post, and now exhaustion draped over him.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
The shop’s main room was quiet again. The mimic-chair beside it maintained its perfect posture, though Thadan swore it followed his movements—like a dog tracking its master.
He made his way to the mimic-sofa. The cushions seemed to adjust themselves as he approached, conforming to his preferred sitting position before he even made contact.
At least someone’s happy to see me, he thought, collapsing onto the surprisingly comfortable surface. The leather was cool against his skin, with that peculiar texture that all their transformed mimics shared—somewhere between well-worn hide and living tissue.
His muscles slowly unknotted as he sank deeper into the cushions. The sofa’s subtle movements, almost imperceptible shifts and adjustments, should have been unsettling. Instead, he found them oddly soothing, like being cradled by something that put in effort to care about his comfort. Even the faint organic scent, a mix of leather and something indefinably alive, had become familiar enough to be comforting.
The events of the day played through his mind: Ms. Thornberry’s knowing looks, Rytha’s cutting remarks about wasted potential, the endless parade of skeptical adventurers. At least the orc priest had actually rented one of their lanterns, though Thadan still wasn’t entirely sure he’d spelled the man’s name correctly on the contract.
His eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion caught up with him. The sofa seemed to cradle him more securely, its surface warming just enough to match his body temperature. The shop’s ambient sounds—creaking wood, settling foundations, the distant bustle of Merchant’s End—faded into a gentle white noise.
As consciousness slipped away, his thoughts drifted to another time, another place...
The garden behind The Laughing Crow smelled of herbs and summer wine. Meyla’s father had planted every variety that might be useful in his tavern’s kitchen, creating a maze of raised beds and climbing vines that provided perfect hiding spots for two young people seeking privacy.
“Your hair’s getting long,” Meyla murmured, running her fingers through the dark strands. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent. “Father says you’re starting to look like a proper Vylari man.”
Thadan leaned into her touch, enjoying the way afternoon sunlight played across her features. The Vylari were known for their striking appearance—tall, graceful, with skin that seemed to catch and hold light like alabaster. Meyla had inherited all of those traits, along with eyes the color of storm clouds and hair like spun copper.
“Would that be so terrible?” he asked, watching a butterfly dance between the herb plants. “Becoming Vylari?”
“You’d have to learn our songs.” Her fingers traced patterns against his scalp. “All seventeen thousand verses.”
“I thought it was eighteen thousand?”
“Showing off won’t help.” But her smile took any sting from the words. “Besides, you’re terrible at singing.”
“I could learn.”
“Mmm.” Her touch moved to the nape of his neck, sending pleasant shivers down his spine. “And what would your father say about that?”
The question should have bothered him, should have sparked the familiar anger and resentment. But here, in this moment, with her fingers in his hair and the scent of herbs all around them, nothing could touch his peace.
“He’d probably write a strongly worded letter,” Thadan mused. “Possibly two, if he was feeling particularly disappointed.”
Meyla’s laugh was like wind chimes in a summer breeze. “Only two? My father would write at least five, with copies sent to every elder in the city.”
“We could run away.” The words slipped out before he could stop them. “Just... leave. Find our own place, somewhere no one knows our names or cares about proper traditions.”
Her fingers stilled. “Thadan...”
“I know, I know.” He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm. “Just dreaming.”
“Dreams are dangerous things.” But she didn’t pull away. “They make us want impossible things.”
“Like a Brightsteel and a Vylari together?”
“Like happiness without complications.” Her touch resumed its gentle exploration. “Like love without consequences.”
They sat in comfortable silence as shadows lengthened across the garden. Somewhere beyond the herb beds, kitchen staff prepared for the evening rush, the clatter of pots and pans a distant counterpoint to the buzz of insects and rustle of leaves.
“We could make it work,” he said when he spoke again. “If we really tried.”
“Could we?” Her voice held no judgment, only genuine curiosity. “Would you really be happy, living by our customs? Following our ways?”
“I’d learn.”
“Like you learned the proper forms for advanced shadow manipulation?”
“In what world is that the same thing?” He shifted slightly, though her fingers kept their gentle rhythm. “Those were just arbitrary rules my father invented.”
“And our customs aren’t arbitrary?” She sounded amused now. “The seventeen thousand verses? The ritual greetings? The proper way to pour tea while reciting your ancestry?”
“Eighteen thousand,” he corrected automatically, earning another laugh.
“See? You’re learning already.”
Her touch moved to his temples, tracing small circles that seemed to ease away every tension, every worry. The garden’s scents intensified—thyme and rosemary, sage and summer savory, all mingling with the distinctive sweetness of Vylari wine herbs that only grew in soil blessed by their priests.
“I miss this,” he murmured, though that wasn’t quite right. This moment hadn’t ended yet, was still happening around them in an eternal afternoon of herbs and sunlight and gentle touches.
“Miss what?” Her fingers moved in steady patterns, like she was weaving spells through his hair.
“You. Us. This garden.” The words came slowly, dream-logic making everything a bit fuzzy around the edges. “Sometimes I think... I think I made a mistake.”
“Did you?” Her touch grew cooler, almost cold against his skin. “Which mistake would that be?”
“Leaving. Running away. Never looking back.” The chill spread from her fingers, seeping into his scalp. “I should have fought harder. Should have found a way...”
“Should have, could have, would have.” Her voice seemed different now, though he couldn’t quite place how. “So many regrets for someone so young.”
The cold sensation intensified, moving down his neck, across his shoulders. The garden’s scents faded, replaced by something else—leather and metal and that indefinable quality of living tissue.
“Meyla?” Her fingers felt wrong now, more like... like...
Something cold and distinctly slimy wrapped around his ankle.
Thadan’s eyes snapped open, dream-scents vanishing as reality reasserted itself with brutal clarity. He was in the shop, on the mimic-sofa, and that sensation around his ankle was definitely not Meyla’s gentle touch.
The mimic’s tongue—because that’s what it had to be (what he hoped it would be)—retracted quickly as he sat up. By the time he’d fully processed what had happened, the sofa looked completely normal again, its cushions arranged in perfect innocence as if it hadn’t just been sampling his leg.
“Did you just...?” He examined his ankle, finding it damp but otherwise unmarked. “Were you tasting me?”
The sofa maintained its furniture-like dignity, though its leather surface seemed to quiver with either sheepishness or appetite.
Thadan considered calling for Brakar, then decided against it. His friend had enough to worry about without adding “potentially peckish furniture” to the list. Besides, to his surprise, the mimic hadn’t tried to eat him. If anything, the touch had been almost... cautious. Like a cat checking if its human was still breathing.
“Right.” He stood slowly, keeping a careful eye on the sofa. “Let’s just agree that was a one-time thing, shall we? No midnight snacking on the business partners.”
The sofa’s cushions adjusted themselves, which he chose to take as agreement rather than anticipation of future meals. Regardless, he decided to ask Brakar about feeding schedules. Just in case.
Outside, Merchant’s End’s evening traffic created a steady background of footsteps and voices. A cool breeze carried the scent of approaching rain—real scents, not the dream-memory of herb gardens and summer wine.
The mimic-sofa remained perfectly still, its iridescent leather catching the last rays of daylight. Thadan found himself touching his hair, half-expecting to feel the ghost of gentle fingers weaving through the strands.
Instead, he felt only the lingering dampness where something decidedly less gentle had investigated his ankle.
“Gods,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “I need a fucking break.”