“Weird,” Sam said, looking left and right at the vast expanse of desert dunes stretching out to either side.
Pete turned around and saw that the opening back to Earth hung in the air just like it had in his own world. The edges of the opening fizzed with purple energy, and a quick step to the side confirmed that the portal was completely flat with no depth whatsoever.
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Weird.”
They walked into the shade of the cloth awning standing out in front of the large circular tent. Closer to the objects now, Pete saw that there were a variety of wooden dolls and face masks in one of the barrels outside of the tent, while containers on the other side held a baffling array of strange fruits and vegetables that looked too brightly colored not to be poisonous.
There were other curious items on display stacked in bundles or hanging from rough twine: bone fetishes, discs with strange symbols etched on them in a variety of colors, and strange orbs that seemed to hover above the ground, circling and leaving trails of light with each movement. There were more mundane items as well. Pots and pans, hammers, and various other tools and implements were also displayed here and there on wooden racks, giving the tent a hardware store in a small-town kind of vibe.
“While we’re in here,” Coop said, “you think we could pick something up for me?”
Pete felt a pang of guilt as he stepped forward, realizing that the entire time he’d been exchanging goods and money with Sam, he hadn’t once thought about what Coop might need. He wasn’t quite sure whether armor was on the cards for a ferret or if she could use weapons or other items, but it was fair enough that she was asking the question.
“Yeah, of course. What kind of thing were you thinking?”
“I’d kill for a pack of Marlboro Lights. Hell, I’d even take a pack of Camels.”
Sam snorted with laughter, barely suppressing the chuckle.
“You want cigarettes?” Pete asked. “You don’t want armor or some kind of weapon or a potion?”
“Just the smokes,” Coop replied.
[Nero] I am confused. Judging by the mental impression you are conjuring, Coop, these cigarettes are some kind of mild stimulant whose smoke you inhale. They appear to reduce your athletic effectiveness and represent significant long-term dangers to your health and well-being.
“That’s the one,” Coop insisted. “Get me a couple of packs of those.”
Pete shook his head. “I’m not gonna buy you cigarettes, Coop, for God’s sake. For starters, you’re in a ferret body, and it can’t be good for you. Secondly… they’re cigarettes! That shit is bad for you.”
“So is traipsing through some kind of alien game with goblins and big bastards chasing after us trying to rip us apart and eat us.”
“That’s a fair point,” Sam said.
“I’m not buying you cigarettes, Coop,” Pete insisted. “But while we’re on the subject, Nero, can Coop use weapons or armor?”
[Nero] Not strictly, no. However, she does gain the benefits of your armor and weaponry. When you increase your proficiencies, core attributes, and gear, Coop will in addition. Most of her attacks and defense abilities, however, will be spells that leverage off her natural capacities. She may choose an ability that increases damage from her claws, for example, or gives her a more ferocious bite. From what I have seen thus far, it seems as though she may even choose more of a tank-like build. In that case, buffs to damage resistance, shielding, and the like would be most advantageous.
“A tank? Really?” Sam barked.
“You bet your ass, sister,” Coop replied, holding her head up a little higher. “How do you think long legs here and I saved your ass when your little boom stick went bust back there?”
Sam narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit. I had it handled.”
“You were about two seconds away from that big bastard splitting you apart, and there was another one coming up behind you that you hadn’t even seen yet! If it wasn’t for Pete and me—”
“I saw the other hobgoblin,” Sam insisted. “I was planning on using them against one another when you two bumbled in and screwed that all up.”
Pete took a step away from Sam, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Can we just stow the aggression for a minute? We’re here to sell some trash loot, so why don’t we just meet this pawn broker and see how much money I can get for all the crap we collected?”
Sam nodded, but her eyes were still as hard as flint, and they never left Coop as Pete walked through the tent flaps and inside. If the area outside was reminiscent of a hardware store, the inside looked more like a combination of an exotic bazaar from some fantasy world and a museum of oddities.
There were rows of shelves on either side housing hundreds of jarred specimens, pickled goods, and potions. From the midpoint of each cloth wall to the ceiling were floating stacks of old, leather-bound books, held aloft by some mystical means, along with rows of scrolls stacked against one another.
To one side were dozens of mismatched armor pieces and various weapons displayed in a variety of positions. There were swords and daggers, mauls, lashes, shields, and spears, even a few bows of dubious quality. Some of the weapons didn’t look like weapons at all, and no matter how he tried, Pete couldn’t make sense of them.
The interior of the tent smelled of spiced beer and Christmas, with a hint of eggnog in the air, along with the ever-present scent of cinnamon. Pete realized that he was walking on a thick, luscious rug and remembered, almost immediately, that he was likely still traipsing blood and gore into the tent.
Shit!
He tried to check his shoes but couldn’t tell in the dim interior of the tent whether there was still gore on his soles. As he looked up again, however, he spied a wooden barrel that was positively spilling over with clothes. The pair of jean-like pants hanging with one leg out of the barrel was of particular interest, given that it looked like it might be close to his size, and it had the added benefit of not being completely soaked through with hobgoblin blood and worse.
A sign in front of the barrel said, “Rags 5 Belch Bucks a bag,” and filled Pete with something suspiciously like hope. If he could find some new clothes that fit reasonably well, then this trip would have been well worth it. His new choice of weapon might also mean a chance of getting through a fight without ending up drenched in hobgoblin innards, too.
A figure sat behind a large curved wooden desk at the rear of the tent, inspecting a curious object with one bulging eye. It looked like an old-fashioned pocket watch that had been opened up, and the dwarf-like figure was prodding the interior of the device with a small screwdriver or some similar tool.
As they moved closer, Pete saw that the figure’s right eye was bulging because he wore a magnifying glass. Meanwhile, his left eye was covered with a patch that boasted a symbol on the front that Pete didn’t recognize.
The group moved closer, and the stout figure looked up from his work, a broad smile splitting his heavily bearded face as he dropped the eyeglass to one hand and placed everything down on the bench.
“Welcome, friends,” the dwarf said, hands outstretched, “and may the gods of trade and history beckon you into their bosom.”
“Bloody hope not,” Coop whispered. “Bastards will keep me well away from their bosoms if they know what’s good for them.”
“Come!” the figure said, motioning for them to come forward. “Come and let us share a drink to celebrate the meeting of new friends and the forging of lifelong bonds of friendship.”
Pete and Sam stepped forward, the former with Coop still sitting on his shoulder with one clawed arm around his neck.
[Pete] Settle down, Coop.
[Coop] Wha…. Who the hell said that? What is this?
[Pete] I’m using the Coinlink. Talking directly into your mind. We just picked it up, remember?
[Coop] Well, it’s damned unnerving. Why don’t you just talk with your mouth?
[Pete] Because I’m trying not to piss off the trader. Seeing as we’re trying to get as much money out of him as possible, I figure it’s a good idea to keep him on our side, yeah?
The dwarf turned aside, clapping his meaty hands together as though summoning someone.
“Che Che!” he barked. “Che Che, we have visitors. Bring a pot of Emberleaf Brew and…” He turned around, still smiling as he looked at each of them in turn before turning back. “Four cups.”
As Pete came to stand in front of the desk, his display lit up with a System description of the trader.
>> NON PLAYER CAPITALIST [NPC]
NAME: Orin “Old Copper Eye” Tithebreaker
ROLE: Trader and Pawnbroker
ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Capitalist
LOCATION: The Abyssal Exchange – a pocket reality slowly collapsing into a black hole.
>> NPC DESCRIPTION
Once a royal of staggering wealth and influence, Orin Blackbarrel earned his true name—Tithebreaker—when he openly defied the endless demands of the Tongsly Belch Corporation. Ordered to pay a tithe on his fortune, Orin refused. Instead, he plucked the first coin of the levy—a gleaming copper Belch Buck—and pressed it into his own skull in place of his left eye. Since that day, he has been known across the cosmos as Old Copper Eye, a living reminder of defiance against Belch’s tyranny.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Exiled for his rebellion, Orin first turned to piracy, raiding Belch’s supply convoys and redistributing stolen wealth. Later, he reinvented himself as a rogue trader, founding a pawnshop in a collapsing pocket reality. Now his shop clings to existence at the edge of a black hole, warped and dangerous, yet perpetually thrumming with rare treasures.
Orin’s reputation is legendary: every exchange he conducts is seen as a skirmish against greed itself. He rejects the Dominion’s endless hoarding of wealth, seeing trade not as accumulation but as discovery—a way to unlock stories, power, and meaning from forgotten objects.
“Orin Tithebreaker,” the dwarf said with a cheery smile. “That’s my name, folks, and unless I miss my guess, you folks look like new recruits freshly lured into Tongsly Belch’s meat grinder.”
Coop snorted. “If by ‘meat grinder’ you mean his mad game, then you’d be right.”
The dwarf nodded, pointing a chubby finger at the ferret. “That’s precisely what I infer, miss… Coop, is it?”
The ferret nodded. “Yes, it is. How the hell did you know that?”
He shrugged, tapping a finger to the side of his head. “Got me a few little bits and bobs that keep me clued into the Mammon System. Ghastly thing it is, but being able to tap into its information network certainly comes in handy.”
Orin turned to the others. “And you’d be Sam,” he said, bowing a little, “the lass with the big boomstick. Fearless in the face of certain death and a real powder keg if my eye sees true.”
She frowned and nodded. “How did you know I have a boomstick? Had a boomstick?”
He raised his right arm and tapped just above the wrist. For a brief moment, Pete thought he saw a translucent gauntlet surrounding the old dwarf’s arm, just like the ones that he and Sam wore. Before he could ask about it, Orin dropped his arm, and a small display showed above his desk.
The screen had strange writing all around the border, as well as what looked like emojis and various other symbols and digital text, as though it was a livestream and people were leaving comments. The center of the screen showed Sam firing her shotgun in the opening volley of the fight they had just concluded. The perspective was from above and in front of her and in enough detail that Pete could clearly make her out.
That perspective shifted a moment later into a split screen, which showed Sam on one side and the hobgoblin she had just shot on the other. At the bottom of both screens were a series of numbers with coin symbols next to them.
“The hell are we looking at here?” Sam asked.
“The Dominion Ultrimax feeds,” Orin said. “They record every move each player makes in vivid detail so that bets can be wagered and sponsors can choose those they see with potential. The moment you chose your class, Pete, I was alerted to that fact. Normally, folks come here by chance or seek me out once they hear that there is someone they can trade with who sits outside of Tongsly Belch’s circus of misery and greed. In this case, however, I was notified that someone had picked up a unique class, a new class that included an ability that led directly here, to this tent.”
Pete nodded. “So, you started tracking us?”
“Indeed. I find that it helps tremendously in matters of commerce the more one knows about one's trading partner.”
[Nero] I should warn you, Pete, and Sam, that conversing with this individual about matters that relate specifically to the contest is forbidden. Further, you are forbidden from speaking with Master Orin on matters relating to the Tongsly Belch Corporation or any personal beliefs he may hold in that regard. Conversations should be strictly bound to matters of trade.
The dwarf laughed, a baritone rumble that made his mustache quiver. “Spoken like a true servant of the Mammon System. And tell me, Nero, what penalty awaits these brave contestants should they break your little rule?”
[Nero] I am uncertain of the precise nature of the punishment; however, the System will likely bestow several debuffs on the party, and, at this early stage, they are particularly vulnerable to anything that reduces their chance of survival. The System itself would have advised of this; however, it seems that some messaging is being blocked while we are within the confines of this tent.
The dwarf chuckled again, nodding to himself as a short, stocky goblin came waddling around from the shadowed area behind him, holding a tray with a pot and several cups.
“I have various measures within this place which limit the reach of the Mammon System,” Orin went on as he motioned for the goblin to begin laying out cups and pouring what Pete presumed was tea. “But, I suppose we should adhere to those rules and restrict our conversation, for the time being at least, to matters of trade.”
The little goblin had tattoos running up and down its arms, and instead of the gaudy metallic earrings and jewels that Pete had seen other goblins and hobgoblins wearing, he bore only a single medallion around his neck and wore a simple flat cap with no adornment. He was dressed in a similar outfit to the dwarf: plain brown clothes with no fine thread or extravagance.
The trousers and shirt looked serviceable, and he also wore a leather apron that boasted various scratches and scrapes and looked as though it had been in use for long years. Like his goblin attendant, Orin also wore a flat cap, colored a plain tan hue with no logo or other identifying mark.
The goblin itself wore a permanent snarl, and Pete couldn’t tell whether the expression was one of genuine anger or simply a product of some injury the creature had sustained throughout its life. It moved proficiently, however, pouring a richly centered amber tea into each of the four earthenware cups before placing the pot back down on the table and picking up a small bowl with what looked like sugar cubes stacked on top.
The little creature didn’t talk but simply shoved the bowl towards Pete, its eyes downcast, mouth twisted into that snarl or grimace.
“Ah… No thanks,” Pete said, prompting the goblin to repeat the exercise with Sam.
She also refused, as did Coop. Orin, however, selected three cubes and popped them delicately into his cup before taking an experimental sip and nodding to himself.
“Che Che, you have excelled as usual. A fine brew.”
The little goblin nodded, still wearing his angered expression but bowing low before picking up his tray and heading back out of the room. There were several stools in front of the trader's bench, so Pete and Sam both sat as Coop jumped off Pete’s shoulder and landed on the table just beside her bowl of tea.
“I rescued him some years ago,” Orin explained, throwing a thumb in the direction of the vanishing goblin. “He was working in a Tongsly Belch factory, chained to a conveyor belt night and day, and forced to manufacture pointless widgets for our supreme overlord.”
Pete noted the sour tone the dwarf employed as he went on.
“In my earlier life, I happened upon that factory and came across poor Che Che. I offered a chance for freedom, and he took it gratefully. Unlike a great many of his kind, he was not so indoctrinated with an obsession with the acquisition of coin above all else. He came gladly, and since then, we have lived and worked together.”
Pete took a sip of the tea and found that while it was a little bitter, it was also refreshing and made him feel more alert and clear-headed. Nearby on the table, Coop sniffed at the tea suspiciously, screwing up her nose and circling around the earthenware cup while Sam drank happily.
“What’s the deal with this face?” Sam asked between sips.
The dwarf nodded, his expression darkening.
“The foreman to whom Che Che reported was fond of japes and trickery. The factory in question manufactured joke items: noxious beetles that can be released among friends or enemies and which spray a certain pungent gas into the air that is reminiscent of what one might encounter in a latrine; various fake food items which, when consumed, provide a variety of effects such as unnatural bloating, the temporary cessation of gravity, and even the short-term translocation of an interdimensional worm creature into one’s gut; and small balloons that can be thrown, which, upon contact with one’s target, twist their face into a gruesome expression for a short period of time.”
Sam frowned. “Let me guess. This foreman thought it would be a good idea to try out that last one on Che Che?”
The dwarf nodded. “Unfortunately, the foreman was so pleased with the result that he continued to repeat the same trick again and again until the change became permanent. Poor Che Che’s face is stuck as you now see it, and he is condemned to never be able to show outward joy or grief, or any emotion that does not align with his twisted features.”
Orin shook his head. “This is particularly egregious because the little fellow is, by nature, a joyful individual. We have found a way around this problem, however. Che Che uses thieves’ cant to express his feelings; a series of hand gestures and finger signs that allow us to communicate more effectively.”
His expression brightened a little as he motioned to the screen that was still hovering above the table. The display vanished.
“Now, let us drink and speak of trade. You have doubtless come here seeking rare items of great story and worth?”
He was grinning as he spoke the words, raising his teacup to his lips, a twinkle in his good eye as though he knew exactly what Pete was here to trade: the lowest value items possible.
“Wait,” Sam said. “I want to go back to this video feed business. So, they’re watching us all the time out there, right? Everything is being recorded and sent to this feed network and, what, people all around the universe are betting on whether we live or die?”
Orin turned to face her. “Whether you live or die, how long each fight will last, what your next meal will be. Citizens of the Dominion are betting on every conceivable aspect of your existence. This is their primary form of entertainment. In many cases, such as the factory floor where Che Che spent the early years of his life, the Dominion Ultrimax competition is the sole form of entertainment citizens are given access to.”
[Nero] Again, I must alert you to the fact that we are straying into areas of conversation that we cannot afford to indulge. Your party may incur grave debuffs if you continue along this route.
Sam rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to find out some information, that’s all. If I can’t talk to Orin about it, then why don’t you answer the question?”
[Nero] Happily, though not while we are in the presence of a rogue trader. Once you return to the contest field, I will gladly answer whatever questions you wish to ask. Whilst we are outside, however, I am not permitted to discuss matters such as this.
“Then let us get to trade,” Orin said, placing his teacup to one side to make space in the middle of the table directly in front of Pete. “Show me, young master, what goods you have to trade.”
Feeling more than a little sheepish about the crap he had to offer, Pete brought out the items one by one, piling them up on the table between them. Soon the tent interior was filled with the tinkling of crappy jewelry, strange hobgoblin artifacts, and various low-grade oddities being piled together. The last item to be placed on the pile was the disheveled teddy bear Coop had looted from one of the dead hobgoblins.
“I know it’s all low-grade crap,” Pete said apologetically. “It’s just that with my current class, I get penalized for touching high-value items, whereas I can trade these and get basically their proper value. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”
Orin reached out and picked up the tattered teddy bear, grinning as he examined the object.
“My boy, value is more than simple monetary worth. Each item, each artifact tells a story of its progeny, of the various hands it has passed through to arrive here in this place. Take this trinket, for example. I see the loss of an eye and feel kinship with this little fellow. The various markings on its remaining eye, the loose threads, the scars where some hobgoblin brute has lovingly repaired damage with rough stitching.”
He turned it over in his hands, examining it as closely as a jeweler might examine an uncut gem.
“I spy at least three different types of thread that have been employed in repairs. That may indicate a single owner who has suffered limited availability of thread, or it could indicate three individual owners. This may be a communal bear passed from hobgoblin to hobgoblin within the band, or it could be the prized possession of one of those brutes, kept in secret for fear that the others might discover its existence.”
Coop snorted. “Just looks like a ratty old teddy bear to me.”
“And, in a sense, you are exactly right. But as I have already said, every object tells its own story. One dwarf’s trash is another dwarf’s treasure. Here at the Copper Eye Emporium, we value story more than mere monetary wealth, and a great many of our customers do too.”
The items the dwarf spent the next few minutes tallying up that Pete had put on the table. He organized them in stacks and assigned a different level of worth to items in each stack. As Pete watched and listened, he realized that the dwarf put a higher value on items which showed signs of wear and tear that could potentially link back to the individuals that had owned them. He also seemed to value items which had passed through many hands more than those that had been owned by a single individual, largely because the story the item told would be more varied and extravagant.
Pete continued drinking his tea, and even Coop licked experimentally at the amber liquid, recoiling and licking her lips as though she had tasted something particularly unwholesome. Sam seemed far less interested in the valuation process; she finished her tea quickly and then stood up and started walking around the tent, picking up various items and inspecting the dwarf's wares with interest.
When it was done, Orin leaned back, patting his stomach contentedly as though he had just finished eating a big meal. He still held the teddy bear in one hand as though he feared Pete might take it away from him if he didn’t hold on to it.
“I have reached a proposed price,” he said with a broad grin.