Shopping

The general store smelled faintly of wood dust, dried herbs, and something sweet—probably fruit that had been sitting just a little too long on the counter. It wasn’t unpleasant, but Morgana wrinkled her nose all the same. 

The place was cramped, shelves sagging under the weight of jars, bundles of rope, and stacks of cloth in muted, earthy tones.

The shopkeeper, a balding man with a tidy beard and sharp eyes, looked up from behind the counter. 

"Welcome, traveler," he said, giving her a quick once-over. His eyes lingered on her tattered cloak but didn’t wander to her horns... Thank the hood for that. "Looking to buy or sell?"

"Sell," Morgana said, her voice calm but clipped. She set the small, battered pouch she’d carried from the ruins onto the counter with a loud thud, coins jingling inside. "Coins, mostly."

The man’s eyebrows rose. "May I?"

She gestured with a hand, shrugging. "Be my guest."

He loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents onto the counter. A cascade of gold and silver coins spilled out, clinking together in a way that drew the attention of two other customers lingering near the shelves. Morgana caught the way their gazes sharpened, the way their ears seemed to tune in. Great. An audience.

The shopkeeper sifted through the coins, picking one up, rubbing it between his fingers, and biting it, an action that made Morgana bite back the urge to roll her eyes. Is that really a thing here?

"These are… old," he murmured, shocked a little. "But genuine. Where… where did you get all this?" 

“Does it matter?” Morgana leaned casually on the counter. “You buying or not?”

He swallowed, running his thumb over one of the coins. “These are… rare. Some of them I’ve only seen in books. The gems... Gods above-”

"I will stop you there. If they are that rare, buy the coins and leave the rest." Morgana cut in, raising one hand. If he can't pay the right price for it, she had no intention of selling them for cheap.

The shopkeep gave an understanding nod. "I’ll have to give you the small-village rate. We can’t match city prices."

Morgana crossed her arms. "What does that mean in numbers?"

He did a quick mental count, then looked up at her. "For these coins, I will have to give you… all the gold I have in stock, which is around sixty. That’s more than I’d normally offer anyone in a single deal."

After a moment, he stopped, shaking his head. “I can’t… I can’t buy it all. You’d clean me out entirely. And I need this money for my daily expanses.”

"Sixty gold. And what exactly is that worth here?" Morgana asked, leaning forward.

He chuckled softly, clearly assuming she was new to the region. "Two gold would feed a family of three for a year, traveler."

Morgana stilled, her mind doing the math in the background. So… this pouch could feed a small army for years. And here I am, covered in mud, wearing a cloak that smells like wet dog.

"Right," she said, trying not to show how much that bit of information impressed her. "I’ll keep the jewelry and gems. Just take the coins that you can."

He nodded and began sorting them into a small chest behind the counter. "That still leaves you with some coins."

“Alright. Then we trade.”

He looked up, wary. “Trade?”

“You give me the sixty gold you’ve got,” she said, smirking, “as well as some decent gear. I need a new hooded cloak and clothes. Dark if you’ve got it. Some wolves destroyed these." She said, pointing to her ragged clothes. "Some food, camping equipment, and… a map. And in turn, I will give you some more of these coins.”

The shopkeeper hesitated for only a second before saying "Okay, deal." and disappearing into the back. Morgana placed an elbow on the counter, half-listening to the quiet chatter of the two customers by the shelves.

"…human armies pushing into the southern front. They say the demons are falling back hard."

"Good riddance," the other replied, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "Filthy things."

Morgana’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter. Charming. I wonder if they’d keep talking like that if they knew one was standing a meter away.

The beaded curtain rattled, and the shopkeeper returned, his arms full. He laid out a thick wool cloak, a rich charcoal color, though the weave was uneven. She brushed her fingers over it and had to bite back a grimace.

God, this feels like wearing a sack. I miss cotton. Real cotton. And machine stitching. And washing machines. Hell, I even miss that one itchy sweater Aunt Carla got me for Christmas.

Still, it would hide her wings better than the tattered rag she had now.

Next came a folded shirt, trousers, and a leather belt, all plain but sturdy. Boots that looked half a size too big but at least intact. A canvas satchel, a rolled bedroll tied with twine, a small flint and steel kit, and a compact bundle of cooking tools wrapped in cloth.

"How about food?" she asked.

"Of course." He added two small sacks of dried meat, a bundle of hardtack, and a jar of something that looked suspiciously like pickled vegetables.

Morgana arched a brow. "Pickles? Really living the high life here."

The man gave her a polite smile, clearly unsure if she was joking.

"And the map?" she pressed.

He produced a rolled parchment, tied with thin twine. "Hand-drawn by a traveler passing through last year. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do."

Morgana scanned the pile. "Good. Pack it up."

He began loading everything into the canvas satchel, tucking the food at the bottom. He then reached for the freshly folded clothes, ready to stuff them into the satchel with the rest of her purchases.

“Hold up,” Morgana said, raising a hand. “These are going on me, not in there. I’ve had enough of walking around looking like a half-dead scarecrow.”

The man blinked at her, halfway through the motion. “Ah—of course. Did you want me to wrap them separately?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “Do you have somewhere I can change? A back room, storage closet, anywhere that isn’t out here in the open? I’d rather not flash the whole village before I even leave the store.”

He gave a small chuckle and gestured toward a narrow door at the far end of the counter. “Through there, on the right. It’s the storeroom. Not fancy, but private.”

“Perfect,” Morgana muttered, snatching up the clothes. “Better than changing behind a tree and praying no one walks by.”

"That’ll be… let’s call it three coins for the lot," he said.

"Done." Morgana slid three old coins across the counter without hesitation, still leaving herself with far more than she could carry comfortably. She made a mental note to stash some of it somewhere safe once she left the village. Gold was heavy, and thieves were… well, thieves.

With swift steps, she quickly slipped into the storeroom, the air thick with the scent of burlap, dried herbs, and faintly musty wood. The dim light from a single, grimy window cast long shadows over stacked crates and hanging bundles of garlic. She dropped her old, tattered cloak onto a crate and began peeling herself out of the rest of her ruined outfit.

“God, this fabric feels like it’s been woven out of sandpaper,” she muttered, yanking at the frayed hem of her shirt. “Earth had microfiber… breathable cotton… and here I am in the Middle Ages with sackcloth chic.”

Her wings twitched as the coarse material brushed against them, making her wince. She grabbed the new shirt from the bundle the shopkeeper had given her, running her fingers over the weave.

“Well… at least it’s not crusted in blood. Yet.”

She held up the shirt, then used one claw to cut two neat holes in the back for her wings, just like she did with her previous one. But this time, she cut the holes more neatly and carefully.

"Sorry, not sorry shirt. I kinda need these holes, nothing personal."

She then tugged it over her head. It took some struggle, but she managed to push her wings through the hole. Nodding her head in a confirming way, she slipped into the trousers. They were a little loose, but far better than the ones that had been ripped open by claws. 

“At least wolves can’t shred these quite as easily… hopefully,” she grumbled.

Finally, she draped the fresh hooded cloak over her shoulders, testing how well it hid her wings and pulling the hood up to check the coverage over her horns. “Not bad,” she said to herself. “Still obvious if someone stares too long, but at least I don’t look like a walking crime scene anymore.”

She stuffed her old clothes into a corner, not even bothering to fold them. “You’ve served your purpose,” she told them dryly, “as a warning to anyone who thinks wolves are cute.” Then she stepped back out into the shop, looking far more put-together... by local standards, anyway.