Dungeon Item Shop

Fresh clamps down on Basil, grabbing her from behind. The priestess, unsurprised, continues her work of serving ice-cream at the window.

“No fraternizing at work!” yells Jubilee from behind them.

Fresh turns her head around. “I’m not fraternizing, Jubilee! I’m giving Basil a hug!” she argues.

“That’s literally fraternizing,” replies Jubilee, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t mind,” says Basil, turning her head around to look over her shoulder.

Jubilee places their hands on their hips. “Well I do.” They nod their head to the side of the counter where the way out is. “Go on. Get. Scram!” they say. “Go do something productive!”

“Okay,” sighs Fresh, letting go of Basil. She grabs the priestess’ long, strawberry-blonde hair and starts braiding it.

“What the fuck are you doing now?”

“I’m braiding Basil’s hair, Jubilee. It’s something productive,” explains Fresh, looking at her friend. Seeing their eyes narrow through the slits of their mask, she yelps, letting go of Basil’s hair and quickly hurries away before she gets yelled at.

As for their crab problem, she isn’t entirely sure, but it feels like it may have solved itself. Since that night, there hasn’t been a single crab that has found its way inside of their home. She likes to think that whatever happened that night, they came to a mutual understanding with the crabs or with the entity that she feels like she had witnessed emerging from the dungeon. They stay out of the crabs’ way and the crabs will stay out of theirs. It’s a good compromise.

She heads upstairs. “Shamaloo!” she calls out, looking for Shamrock. She peeks into the workshop. “Shamboozle?”

Shamrock turns his head from the workbench, looking her way. “Shamrock,” is all that he says and Fresh laughs.

“Sorry, Shamrock!” she replies, knocking on her head. “Can I come in?” she asks, looking at the workman’s knife in his hand, that is far too small for his large grip. He nods and Fresh steps inside, approaching him from behind and trying to hug him from the back. “Jubilee told me to go do something productive,” she says, as if that was her explanation for the hug. Shamrock nods, understanding.

Turning his head to look back at her, he looks down before himself and then back at her again. “Look,” says the giant, stepping to the side. Fresh beams, looking past him towards the table and gasps.

“Shamrock! They’re super cool!” she says, looking at the collection of little, wooden figurines, carved out of a mixture of different beach-woods and decorated with small pendants and charms made out of crabs, seashells and pretty rocks. Each of them is about the size of the length between the tip of her middle finger and her wrist.

Some of them look like people, but some of them look like monsters as well. Here’s one that’s clearly human but the one next to it is a goblin and that one there is clearly a dragon of some kind. There is another one, it looks like a man who Fresh can’t help but feel is vaguely familiar in an odd way that she can’t explain.

They aren’t the greatest artworks ever made, by any stretch, but Fresh is wowed because she knows that her friend, having no crafting abilities or class of any kind, has made these painstakingly by hand, with nothing but a knife that is too small for his grip and a lot of time.

One thing she can’t figure out though, is why they each have a small indent in their sides, until she watches Shamrock set them together and then she realizes they're a set. The wood connects together, the human and the dragon and the goblin and all of the other little, wooden creatures all stick together like the pieces of a puzzle, as they form a whole circle, all of them the pieces of one greater thing.

It doesn’t actually do anything, not having any magical effects of any kind. But, that isn’t the point. It isn’t supposed to do anything. It’s supposed to be something, to represent something.

Fresh looks out over the collection and her eyes catch the one figurine of a human again. A man, but she just can’t place what’s bothering her about it. Seeing her gaze, Shamrock turns his head to her and then looks back at the figurine.

“Gauden,” says the man, explaining.

Fresh gasps. “The witch?” she asks, realizing. “I thought Gauden was a woman?”

Shamrock shakes his head. “Spillaholle, Perchta, yes,” he explains, poking her softly in the forehead. “Gauden was a man,” he says, his chest lurching outward as he speaks. “Before he left.”

Fresh blinks. She supposes the ‘leaving’ thing was a reference to the other witches having left to go past the south border, to never return to this side of the world.

“Did you know them, Shamrock?” asks Fresh and Shamrock nods, lifting his hand to strike against his chest twice with his knuckles.

“I was there,” he explains, his eyes wandering around the room. “When they left.”

Fresh tilts her head, still holding on to him. “Were you friends?” He nods and Fresh thinks that she understands. Shamrock knew the other witches, that’s how he was introduced to his lifestyle, to the path he had chosen to walk. She presses her cheek against his armor. He had probably gotten it back then. The others, most if not all of the sect, including the witches Gauden and Spillaholle, had gone to the south, having had enough of this side of the world, perhaps holding it for lost and as being beyond redemption. Maybe they were right? Who knows?

“How come you stayed?” she asks, realizing that it’s a rude question. If Jubilee, if Basil, if Shamrock were to simply pack their bags and decide that it’s time to leave, she isn’t sure that she would have the strength to stay behind without them, to walk another road all by herself like Shamrock had chosen to do back then.

Shamrock stares at her, before turning back to the circle of figurines. He adjusts them, scooting them closer together as he thinks. “I kept the faith,” replies the man. “Someone had to.”

This is the answer she had expected and yet, it still manages to make her sad. Shamrock’s whole life has been in service of others, even down to his most basic, fundamental principle of being, everything has been to help others and she’s worried that there just isn’t enough space left for Shamrock himself in all of that jumble.

“I’m glad you stayed, Shamrock,” says Fresh and he nods in return, placing a large hand on her head.

“I was given two feet to walk,” says the man, pulling her free from himself. “Not to hide,” he says and Fresh nods, understanding his message.

“We’re gonna make it better here, Shamrock,” promises Fresh. “I don’t know how, honestly. It feels like a lot sometimes,” she admits. “Like more than is possible to fix. But we’re gonna do it!”

He nods, satisfied. “Strong.”

“STRONG!” howls Fresh, starting to cry as she reattaches herself to the man’s armor.

It takes a while, before she has finished ‘processing her emotions’ as she had described it to Basil, but eventually, everything that needs to be felt has been felt and everything that needs to be done has been done and she heads back out of the workshop, wiping her face as she decides to get a light lunch ready for everyone. They’re all working so hard, they’re all chasing after some distant goal and she’s just been goofing around.

Getting some food ready, just some simple sandwiches and soup, she carries everyone their portions, alleviating Jubilee of their counter-duty so that they could have a chance to go upstairs and eat too.

It’s been a while since she worked the counter anyway and she’s missed it a little. The little interactions with the customers, the little spats about a product costing an Obol more or less, being able to watch the world pass you by from a secure spot that you not only own, but that you belong in. Like a bird, sitting in a comfortable, bough-hidden nest while a storm rages on outside, working in the shop, living in the shop, brings her a security that she only ever really appreciates while she’s at the best vantage point, right in the middle of it all.

She smiles a satisfied smile. It’s going to be hard and rough and complicated, but somehow, she’s going to make the world a better place. Not just for herself, not just for her friends, but for everyone in it.

Even if they don’t appreciate her doing so.

“Excuse me?” asks a voice from the ice-cream window.

Fresh turns around, looking past Basil at the man in full, ornate armor standing there, looking around confused. A crusader, a soldier from the north, given the imagery on his armor.

“Is this the, uh, the Dungeon Item Shop?” asks the young, somewhat awkward looking man as he stares around curiously.

Razmatazz

The tikis are cursed.

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