“Do you think such thing as a ‘dire goose’ could exist?” muses Professor Abernathy, sifting through a case of scrolls. “Or a masterwork chicken? Now, that would really be something.” Finding no texts of interest, he turns to browse the shelves instead. Erling, Keelan, Zoe, Vasiles, and Abernathy wander ‘Johnny’s Masterwork Store’ in search of supplies. Mort has yet to show his face this morning and is likely off nursing a hangover. The store’s proprietor, a stocky man named Johnny, watches the group from behind the counter. They’re a curious sight indeed, with Zoe in her raven swathed armor, Vasilles with his tattooed everything, and Abernathy carrying his tremendous crossbow. Erling, likewise, is the only salidar for miles around, and Keelan looks like death on casual friday. Having spent the night in his childhood home, the fili has made an effort to look presentable. He’s traded his raggedy nightclothes for village attire, begrudgingly borrowed from Jeremy the apprentice. This morning he wears a proper tunic, trousers, and vest— though he’s still refused any footwear. His hair is as damp and stringy as ever, pulled back into a tangled ponytail. The tightness of his new apparel seems to distress him and he can scarcely browse the shop without stopping to pluck at his sleeves.

“You know what,” Zoe decides, hands moving to rest on her hips. “That must be why you hate wearing shoes so much. You haven’t worn them in ages.”
Keelan groans and tugs at his collar. “Yeah. This is all so… confining.”
Abernathy approaches the shopkeep and flattens his hands against the counter. “Do you have anything fancy?” he asks, “I feel like treating myself.”
Johnny smiles and produces a copper spyglass from one of the drawers. Abernathy is immediately taken in, enamored by its collapsible portability. When the price is revealed, however, his jaw drops to the floor. The professor politely declines in favor of something *less* *fancy.* He turns his attention to a set of lock-picking utensils instead. The shopkeep dubs them ‘jailbreak tools’ and extols their excellent quality. They’re expensive, he explains, because their manufacturer stops in Wicklow but once a year. He is apparently famous for his “dippy birds,” a line of novelty glass tubes. These so-called “sipping chickens” drink from a glass of water, continuously bobbing and tilting. “They sell out so fast,” notes the shopkeep and everyone murmurs in agreement. Despite hailing from different corners of Domme, everyone in the party has heard tell of the legendary dippy bird. After much back and forth, Abernathy and the shopkeep come to an agreement. The professor walks away with shiny, new thieves tools.
“You’re a good negotiator,” Johnny chuckles.
Keelan is next to approach the counter. “Hello,” he greets. “Have you any ink and parchment? I’m looking to write a letter.”
“Of course,” answers the shopkeep. “…but I also have this.” He holds up a fibrous white sheet. “They’re calling it… ‘paper.’”
Keelan is mystified by the new invention and fumbles for his coin pouch. Erling intervenes before he can pay, placing a cautionary hand on his shoulder. “That might not be the best idea,” he warns, explaining how paper can turn soggy. “Given your… moistness,” Erling gestures to his sopping clothes, “…I’d probably go with parchment.”
Keelan heeds this advice gratefully, opting for the “least water soluble options available.” While he’s checking out, Johnny cheerily asks if this is “his first time in Wicklow.”
Keelan shakes his head. “Oh, no. I used to live here.”
The man frowns and looks at him sideways. “Really? I’ve lived here all my life.” There is an obvious undertone of ‘…and I’ve never seen you before’ to his voice.
Keelan looks sheepish and tries to rectify his story. “Forgive me,” he coughs, brushing a bone-braid over his shoulder. “I’m an O’Callahan relative, I mean. That’s what I meant to say.”
Appearing to buy this, the shopkeep looks instantly rueful. “Ah, the O’Callahans. Sad thing that happened to that family.” He hands Keelan his satchel of ink and parchment. “I suppose you’re here to help with Armus’ passing.”
“…pardon?”
An uncomfortable incertitude hangs between them. Johnny scratches his neck and apologizes, not having meant to cause alarm. He’d assumed Armus’ condition was common knowledge. He explains that he has the “black lung,” a creeping illness with no magical cure. Healing magic only bolsters the disease, causing abnormal cells to further divide. The temple clergy have long tried to heal him, to no avail. Attempting to pivot, the shopkeep advertises his grandmother’s “fat tea,” a supposed northern cure-all. He’s in the midst of a rebranding campaign, having found that “fat” wasn’t the most salable adjective. The product is now called “hearty broth,” which the party eagerly purchases. Keelan asks how many packets are available, fully intending to shower his father in it. Before leaving the shop, he poses one final question. “You wouldn’t happen to know Dillan M’Kale, would you? I was hoping to pay him a visit, but I hear he’s moved.” Johnny answers that he’s gone up north towards Bellenis, taking his family with him. Keelan thanks him for the information and heads outside, muttering about how fitting it is that a “trash man should live in a trash city.”

Before Abernathy can leave with his purchase, Vasilles pulls him aside. They linger behind one of the bookshelves, concealed from Johnny, Zoe, and Erling. “I want to apologize…” begins the Quazit, speaking low and unusually earnest.
The professor blinks. “For what?”
“For being… hard on you. Before… I… didn’t have the money. For Illyana, though, I would have done anything.” He produces a sackful of gold and places it in Abernathy’s hands.
“Well, I… gathered that part,” the professor admits, “…are you going to pay everyone, then? Is your wife getting healed?” He pockets the coins and clears his throat. “What’s going on…?”
Vasilles fiercely assures that Illyana will be restored. As for the rest of the money, he still has a bit of finagling to do. The Quazit is determined to settle his debts and see through the expedition. Apparently satisfied by this, Professor Abernathy pulls a book from his backpack. “I bought this,” he says, turning the cover to Vasilles. “A guide to lock picking. I believe it will prove a good investment.” He smiles. “If we stay together, perhaps it will be worth our while.” The Quazit squints at him, uncertain if this counts as archeology or crime. In any case, the quarrel between them is finally settled— for now, anyways. They depart from Johnny’s Masterwork Store in peace.

‘Benny’s Blades’ is next on the supply run. Abernathy removes his oversized crossbow and offers it to the blacksmith. He’s decided to replace it with something smaller and quicker.
“You’re no longer overcompensating!” jabs the Quazit, “What changed?”
“I carried a huge crossbow for our entire adventure!” snaps the professor. “I’m tired!”
Benny is on the fence about the weapon, explaining that “only old men hunting squirrels in their yards” would bother buying it....