The trader's store was a small, dimly lit space with walls lined by an eclectic mix of goods—blades, daggers, and swords hanging alongside glass showcases of knickknacks.
The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and musty fabric, something Russell found particularly offensive. He blocked his nose with his hand, muttering under his breath, "How can anyone breathe in here?"
Meanwhile, Wolfgang wandered with wide eyes, curiously inspecting the array of items as if it were a treasure trove.
Gordon entered first, flashing a grin. "Good evening, old man. I've come again."
The trader, a wiry man with white hair and a face creased with deep wrinkles, sat near the hearth, warming his hands. He turned lazily, his gaze barely leaving the flames. "
Did you come to trade again?" he muttered, his voice gravelly. "I hope it's something as good as those gold cufflinks you brought me last time."
