Chapter 12: How to Sell Items to a Mad Man
My right leg dragged like it belonged to someone else. My left shoulder popped every three steps. I probably looked like a failed attempt at animating a scarecrow with budget magic.
And even so, I went to town.
Because, you see, when you defeat a giant acid-spitting spider that tries to roast you alive, you earn the right to try and monetize that. I had rare minerals — some still carrying that lovely aroma of death and smoke — and an improvised pouch made from torn cloth and blind hope.
Ashveil in the morning somehow looked even more depressing than at night. People walked around with that aimless urgency, like fleeing their own lives was just part of the day's schedule. I crossed the main street and felt the stares instantly.
Some whispered. Others muttered. A small boy pointed and asked if I was a curse. His mother pulled him close and made the sign of the cross with a wooden spoon.
Ah, the warmth of community.
"Ugh, what an ugly thing."
"Look at that face... looks like it crawled out of a drain."
"Do you think it bites?"
I didn't answer. Not out of restraint, but because my jaw was killing me.
I kept walking until I came across a small tent, set apart from the others. Made of thick cloth full of patches, the fabric was a greenish shade — like it had been dyed with mold and tears. A strong smell of vinegar and rotting onions hung in the air, which honestly made me think I'd found the right place.