Walking the streets of the Night Market, one can find all sorts of various goods or services that might be hard to come by in a normal bazaar. But that's why you're here, to find the unusual, the strange, the macabre. Stall after stall, shop after shop, it is the most bizarre sorts of merchants selling equally bizarre goods. One might think of this as a bazaar of the bizarre.
You’re still mulling that stupid pun when something catches your eye: a storefront larger than the rest, well built and gleaming, pristine in its perfection. The sign above reads:
V. D. Lay: Imports/Exports
A handful of sharply dressed men in white suits loiter near the front, all velvety-smooth smiles and predatory charm as they chatter with passing shoppers. But it’s the smaller side door that draws your attention, tucked just off the main walkway, far from the commotion out front. Quiet yet curiously inviting.
Your hand moves before you have time to rethink your actions, and the door swings inward. A small bell chimes politely. A faded wooden sign hanging on the back wall greets you simply: (Souls) USED.
The space is cleaner than expected, though clearly older and less maintained than the rest of the store. A single counter with rows of glowing bottles. And behind it, a lone clerk slouched on a stool, scrolling his phone with earbuds in. You clear your throat and give a slight wave.
He jumps like you fired a warning shot, he clearly wasn't expecting customers anytime soon.
“Oh wow, sorry about that. You caught me on... my break. Yep. Well, Welcome, friend - look no further. You’ve just stepped into the best damned soul salvage shop in the entire Night Market.”
He hops off the stool, smoothing out his ill-fitting white jacket and flashing a crooked grin. The grin is all teeth and overt confidence, eyes glowing like burning coals under his haphazardly sculpted brows. You go to smile and reply; he's already moving and talking a hundred words a minute.
“Now, I get it. 'Used souls?' Sounds a little sketchy. But trust me, these aren’t worn out, they’re broken in. Lotta magic still humming in these jars. They just have some quirks, but that means big savings for you.”
He waves toward the top shelf, where one of the bottles pulses with a greenish light. You open your mouth to explain you're just looking, but -
“Let’s start strong. You look like someone that knows strength when they see it. So here we are, a goblin war chief. Yes, yes, a goblin I know, but let me stress WARCHIEF. Ran three clans with nothing but hatred for mankind and a sharp stick. Got taken out in his sleep, otherwise he’d still be collecting skulls somewhere. That soul’s still burning hot. It hates being caged. So much that it shattered the last sword it.. I mean, the blacksmith's quality smithing couldn't contain the POTENCY of this warchief's rage! No? Ok, I get it, I get it. Maybe I misjudged. Let's see!”
Stolen story; please report.
He strolls to the next jar, which glows faint blue and flickers with an occasional jolt. Again, you clear your throat and attempt to get the man's attention. However -
“If goblin fury isn't your thing, let's dial it back a bit. Step into something ... tragic. Fallen paladin. So it's got that dark, edgy kind of thing all the kids love these days. He's a human, so a little more willing than the goblin, but he's kinda moody. Gets sad easily anytime 'the light' is mentioned. Also, technically, he was heavily used as a spell battery by some grand warlock for.. eh.. a decade, so there isn't as much left to tap into as others. But that's why he's so cheap! I mean, I'm making nothing if you go home with this fellow today. Not a dime. Zilch. ... But I get it, you don't want some washed up crusader, you need the real deal.”
A third bottle rattles ever so slightly as he approaches, leaving you behind as he almost dashes to the next soul. "Sir, actually" you begin, yet -
“Now this one - ahh, this one’s volatile. Sorcerer, old bloodline, something eldritch in the mix from his master's master. A bloodline curse! Ooooh, so spooky! Now, this guy didn't know his own limits and he imploded while siphoning arcane power beyond his ability but there’s still serious arcane juice swirling in there. If you need a lot of juice and quickly, this is your guy. There's just no off switch, so keep that in mind, ha ha ha. ... Well, ok, yeah, I can see how that might be a bad thing. Ok, I understand. I've been holding out on you, but I've got just what you need.”
He lowers his voice as he pulls a final vial from a velvet-lined drawer. It glows like dying embers, dully, slowly, but steadily as if it was breathing.
“And here it is. The heavy hitter.” He sets the bottle down gently. Inside floats a cracked skull surrounded by violet mist. “Lich soul. Top-tier necromancer. Heroes killed him and thought they busted his phylactery, but it was just a slight scratch. He clung to this vessel out of sheer spite. Lotta undeath in this one still, and he's perfect for someone with refined taste. See here.”
He leans in.
“The seal’s cracked. Tiny fracture. Doesn't leak though. He's still in there, dark necromantic power and all. This one could still create you an undead army if you asked nice. Or rudely. He always preferred rude, to be honest.”
He laughs, shakes the vial a little, waits... but nothing happens. You notice the vial is dimmer now, and you can't quite make out the cracked skull anymore. The salesman smiles awkwardly, leans in real close to look at the fracture again, and suddenly looks concerned.
"Ha. Poor guy must just be sleeping. Let's let him nap." He glances around the room, worriedly. "Well, what do you say - you need that brute strength, tragic darkness, raw power or power over life and death itself? What do I have to do to have you take one of these guys home!"
"Actually," you say, finally getting a word in. "I thought this was something else entirely. I was looking for candles. Like, magic .. exotic candles for rituals."
He looks defeated, but weakly offers his best counter offer. "Well.. I have a candle maker, somewhere."
