Page 3 of Wizards & Weavers
What were they thinking? Sure, Braiden needed to learn the business and study Granny Bethilda’s weaving magic along with it. But how had it come to this? How did they ever believe they could move all this product?
“Maybe some day the world will freeze over,” Braiden muttered. “They’ll all need sweaters then.”
He ran his hands over the sweaters, smiling in spite of himself. So plush, so comfy. He knew all these stitches, all these loops and swirls. Gods, but he missed Granny Bethilda. She would think of something. She would know what to do.
And if all else failed, she’d be there to make him a cup of hot cocoa. It didn’t taste the same when Braiden made it.
He shut the door behind him, keeping the memories locked tight. He loved this place as much as he hated it. He adored all these silly skeins and spools, spent so much of his day running his hands along all the embroidery thread, combing it out with his fingers.
He glanced at the sewing tin, at the scrap of knitting he’d picked up, and finally at the lonely tomato. Here he was crafting more of these infernal creations when not a single sale had been made. All this traffic coming through Weathervale and not one warrior in need of a scarf, not one rogue with a taste for fine, fluffy sweaters.
Scarves and sweaters. Far too many of them. Braiden picked up the unfinished square of yarn he’d been working on when the horned warrior had walked in. He began to frog the stitches.
Undo, unstitch, unravel. That was the nice thing about working with yarn. Nothing was permanent unless you wanted it to be. Everything could be fixed with enough time, with the right touch. He could mend this later by hand, or maybe with a careful dose of magic.
His fingers froze.
“I can fix this with magic,” Braiden breathed.
A thrill of excitement coursed through his body, the very tips of his fingers tingling with the electricity of something new, something that could be the spark of a good idea.
With a sweep of his arm he shoved the sewing tin aside, making space on the counter. He reached for the piece of parchment demanding that rent was due and turned it over. Blank on the back. Perfect. He selected the fluffiest, most luxurious feather in his collection of quills and dipped it in his darkest ink.
Braiden Beadle began to write.
Chapter
Two
Business was boomingat the Dragon’s Flagon, but business was booming at many of Weathervale’s establishments. Just not the ones that sold needle and thread. Braiden barely recognized the tavern’s regulars through this thickened crowd of new arrivals, adventurers from all over Aidun come to seek their fortune in the dungeon.
Cheery, boisterous laughter rang out through the drinking hall, a large open room divided by benches and long tables. It was a nice enough place to unwind and enjoy a tasty beverage after a long day, and it also happened to be conducive to the occasional bar fight.
And there Braiden sat at the bar counter, pen in hand, scribbling away. He liked to tell himself that he came to the Dragon’s Flagon out of a sense of duty. He didn’t have very many friends in Weathervale, so he tried to nurture the ones who bothered to show even a sliver of care.
Only Dudley the barkeep really bothered to talk to Braiden, and the man seemed to wear a permanent grimace. But he was kind, never kicking Braiden out even when he’d clearly overstayed his welcome. Dudley wasn’t a nice man, but Braiden knew he was kind. Kind was different. Kind was better.
Braiden’s repurposed bill was almost filled up with the scrawl of his handwriting by now. He’d locked up and left Beadle’s Needles with his favorite portable pen in hand, determined to write out every last detail of his possibly harebrained plan. He’d miraculously avoided any puddles of water on the countertop, any circles of condensation left from cooling beer mugs.
It didn’t hurt that Braiden had a special creation to both preserve the coolness of a beverage and help with the wetness. He’d taken a hint from tea cozies, those knitted sweaters for teapots that kept them warm.
By weaving his own little cozies for his beer mug and infusing them with just a touch of magic, he could keep his drinks at the Flagon frosty for far longer. Just a pity that he couldn’t make the magic permanent. What a gift that would be to Dudley, a very helpful boon for his business.
Braiden adjusted his beer cozy, trusting in his invention, but still careful to keep his parchment away from the mug. He couldn’t risk getting any of the ink smeared on his little treatise. A business plan, more like.
He swiped at the snack bowl, scooping up a handful of peanuts and roasted peas and corn kernels fried so crispy that they might have been incinerated by a magical fireball.
“Hmph,” Dudley grumbled. “Those are for everyone, you know.”
“And there’s plenty for everyone, still. Don’t be stingy.”
Braiden scooped up a second handful and crammed it in his mouth, taking only a moment’s pause to enjoy the satisfying crunch, reminding himself that this was sustenance.
“You’re lucky I actually refill the bowls and throw the stale bits out. It’s not done at other taverns these days, you know? It’s not right. And anyway, have you eaten anything else today?A man can’t live on bar nuts alone, Braiden. Look at the state of you.”
With both hands busy polishing a beer mug and a black apron tied around his waist, Dudley was the very picture of the ideal barkeeper. Yes, even down to his stoic glare, the long-suffering dark circles under his eyes that said he’d seen and heard everything, and especially the stout build meant for hefting huge kegs of beer and throwing out unruly patrons.
“Listen here,” Braiden said, waving his pen in the air. “I don’t come here to have my life choices thrown in my face.” Then he picked up his flagon and tilted it from side to side. “And this is empty. Come on, Dudley. Hit me.”
