"Hello?" Flint called. There wasn't an immediate response, though the sound of wood scraping against wood could be heard. A quick look about the place showed it was comfortable and well-decorated, if a bit small. There were shelves standing n the floor, displaying an array of objects both strange and mundane. It appeared to be some sort of second hand store, but a fine one. Most of the goods were of the more expensive variety, such as fine clothes, antique furniture, lockets, jewelry boxes, exotic cloth from the east, old tomes, bones from long-deceased monsters... Everything was well-polished, small lanterns lit the room, and it was arrayed in such a way that everything was fetching to the eye. It wasn't humble, no; it was someone taking the best advantage of the small space they had offered to them. The door that led to the back of the building was ajar.

It became clear after a moment that someone was watching them. Boran noticed first, then Flint. To the right stood a tall, armored Caernling, a bearded warrior clad in scale armor with a vicious looking spiked mace resting at his hip. Apparently [i]that[/i] was how the goods were kept safe.

"Forgive my tardiness," came a voice with a Westerling accent. They were interwoven with soft clicks upon the floor. "I would have answered sooner, but as they say in soldierly vernacular, my eyes were on the target." At that moment, the door to the back was pulled open, and a Westerling came in. He was a middle-aged man clutching a cane with a dragon-shaped head, a coal-skinned gentleman wearing black-and-gold fineries and old spectacles. His beard was ash-colored, and he wore a sad but steady smile.

"How can I help you?" he asked.