Swaggering in cool as Clint Eastwood in some old Western, Seymour pushed through the swinging saloon-style doors, only to immediately become gobsmacked like a dork by the sights and sounds of the Adventure Depot’s groundlevel showroom. He found himself paralyzed by awe, standing at the beginning of a gold-trimmed red carpet which bisected the busy space, stretching down a wide aisle and ending at the far wall where Seymour saw what was clearly the shop’s main sales counter. Groups of gritty-looking dungeon crawlers hurried to form a line there, jostling to be the first to transact business with a whole fleet of salespeople, each of whom appeared equally eager to serve them.

  Scanning the sales floor with his jaw hanging open, the sheer volume of magical merchandise completely blew Seymour’s mind. Between the entrance and the main counter, twenty or more rows split off from the red carpet on both the left and right, stocked generously with all sorts of enchanted gear. There must have been thousands upon thousands of magical objects for sale here, all of it displayed with the sterile conformity of a big box shop back on Earth. All of it displayed as if it was completely normal to have this much magical stuff gathered in one place.

  “This is gonna take some getting used to.”

  Gradually, his feet began obeying his commands again and he moved further into the shop, one cautious step at a time. In the rows closest to the entrance, full-size mannequins modeled armor ranging from elaborately embroidered robes to jerkins made from exotic animal hides and even heavy steel suits of plate which would cover the wearer from head-to-toe – real Camelot shit. The mannequins themselves wore blank, featureless faces, but were arranged in what Seymour could only describe to himself as dynamic action poses.

  Meanwhile, all around the perimeter of the showroom he saw more glass-fronted display cases filled with trinkets and baubles, and it appeared all of the weapons were kept out of the public’s reach, hung on the walls behind the various counters. It made sense to limit the availability of bizarre, fantasy-world instruments of death and destruction, the same way a gunshop back in California wouldn’t just let its customers rob the place using its own merch.

  And as Seymour browsed around, he identified a wide variety of weird arms for sale: gleaming longswords surrounded by purple motes of pure magic, smart-mouthed sapient axes, bows made from the bones of all kinds of weird monsters, daggers which oozed endless dribbles of bright green poison, a flaming boomerang that seemed like an awful idea, and even a set of brass-knuckles which he overheard a stunning, green-haired sales-dryad explaining would cause the wearer’s fist to grow to comical proportions – just to name a few.

  “Judging by the look on your face, you must be my new hire.” A sharp-featured man wearing what looked like a Friar Tuck costume had appeared alongside him. “I’m Eusebio Duartez.”

  The name ‘Eusebio’ was familiar from Seymour’s recruitment letter. This was the general manager of Dragon Dan’s Adventure Depot – his boss for the duration of this assignment.

  Following Chester Hedwick’s fashion advice and borrowing from the community closet back at the alien boarding house, he’d come dressed modestly but looking professional, in a white dress shirt with white buttons and black slacks held up by matching black suspenders. He’d gotten up extra early to trim his hair himself and had neatly combed it into a part. His collar and cuffs were creased, and his brown shoes were lightly polished. This was the style expected of professional peddlers, and he accepted it – even if the outfit made him feel a little like Peewee Herman. A bowtie might have completed the ensemble, but evidently they didn’t exist in this world and he had no intention of inventing them.

  Meanwhile, this Eusebio dude met him while dressed in clothes Seymour thought were better suited to a gravedigger than a magic shop manager: a torn and dirty brown robe belted at the middle with a length of frayed rope. Looked like a monk straight out of Central Casting – but kinda sleazy like a monk who sells used cars.

  He wore his black hair slicked back with some kind of grease, along with a pencil-thin crust of mustache which crawled across his upper lip like a train of ants. He might have been in his mid-to-late thirties, by Seymour’s best estimate—no more than a decade older than his own twenty-seven year-old self—but much younger than he ever would have guessed the manager of a magic shop would be. It felt like a job best suited for a gray-haired wizard-type.

  “Do please excuse my current dishevelment,.” Eusebio executed a quick, crisp bow which Seymour mirrored. He’d learned that this was how Heschians greeted one another in a professional setting, as handshakes weren’t really a thing here. “I manage the depot, which means I dabble in a little of everything – and which in turn means today I’m covering for Matron Martha. She usually oversees the Ressurectory down in the basement, but evidently she woke up this morning with some sort of stomach troubles. I’ve learned not to ask for details beyond what she shares on her own. You give her a chance and Martha can get…. explicit.”

  “Good to meet you, I’m Seymour Little.”

  Seymour was still so thoroughly distracted by his surroundings that he didn’t even think to ask what a resurrectory was. There was too much happening all over the showroom; too much to see and try to absorb.

  This gig was going to be completely different from stacking bricks as a mason’s assistant or splitting logs to help keep the Ghizo’s Crossing orphanage warm at night. Characters straight out of a homebrew Dungeons & Dragons campaign came streaming in through the shop’s swinging doors: hulking barbarians alongside lithe nymph scouts; ageless, dignified elven mystics teaming up with garish bards in gold tights and gem-encrusted codpieces; granite-skinned gargoyle geomancers in the company of gnomish steam-clerics. They must have all been out there in the dark, Seymour realized, waiting for the shop to open, lined up well in advance of the shuttle’s arrival.

  “You still with me, Little?” Eusebio had noticed Seymour’s eyes glazing over. “Busy, isn’t it? The first hour down here on the sales floor kicks the snot out of us every single day. I personally adore the chaos, to be quite honest.”

  “Where did they all come from so early?” His own voice sounded far away; the words came out all on their own.

  “The crawlers? Why, they came from the local dungeon, of course – buried deep within Vol’kara.”

  “Seriously? Are you saying that there’s a dungeon full of monsters and traps and whatnot, right under our feet?”

  “Yes, that’s basically correct, and the lone entrance is just outside.” He nodded toward the door. “Entry is free, of course – and always at the customers’ own risk. But we do sell a great many temporary sigils of escape.”

  “Temporary sigils?” Seymour couldn’t help but picture the temporary tattoos he used to plaster all over his arms as a kid.

  “Yes, they adhere to the skin and when peeled off they cast a short-range teleport back to the dungeon’s entrance. It’s a very good seller. Though if I’m being completely upfront, most everything sells well here.”

  “Do the salespeople make any commission?” Seymour wondered.

  “No, but if the shop performs well enough—and it always does—then the entire sales team receives a profit-sharing bonus on the first of each month.”

  “And this is where I’ll be working? Selling magic gear and goodies to bonafide dungeon crawlers?”

  One of Eusebio’s eyebrows arched up.“You think you have what it takes to succeed on the sales floor?”

  “You bet.” Seymour finally came back into his body at the opportunity to sell himself. “I’ve worked some retail in the past, but lately I’ve been kicking around as a server in some pretty swanky joints. It’s the same basic skillset, though, you know? You listen, you identify the customers’ needs, and then you convince them they need more.”

  “Your proficiency has been duly noted, but at the moment I have other tasks for you to perform.”

  Seymour looked him up and down. “You’re not gonna have me digging graves or something, are you?”

  That eyebrow of Eusebio’s arched up even further. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I mean, you’re kinda dressed like a gravedigger, right? I’d say you look like a regular old monk but you’re too dirty. And, frankly, your hair.”

  “What about my hair?”

  “I don’t know. It’s sort of giving off serial killer vibes, you know?” Seymour shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Your hair looks fine, and I’m sure you’re not secretly murdering customers and burying them out back or anything.”

  “What if I were?” Eusebio asked without missing a beat. “Would you help me hide the bodies?”

  “Well that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “A lot of things.” Seymour counted his fingers while listing the variables. “Did they have it coming? Are they still uh, intact, and whatnot – or have you already cut ‘em up or run ‘em through a meatgrinder or whatever? Do I need to move them someplace? If so, will I be getting paid extra for my mileage? And we’re talking on the clock here, right? Because I’d be willing to go above and beyond for some overtime.”

  Eusebio half-laughed and scoffed at the same time. “I might have underestimated you, Riftborn. Perhaps you truly are cut out for sales.”

  “Riftborn is the word you guys use on this world, but I was actually born in Denver. I’m Denverborn.”

  Suddenly an orange-bearded little person wearing a horned helmet barged through between them, snarling as he went past. But no, he wasn’t a little person like Seymour was familiar with from Earth – he was a legit dwarf-dude. Seymour watched the dwarf cross the showroom until finally he entered a shadowy stairwell and went stomping up and out of sight. Eusebio was completely unphased by the interruption, like that sort of thing just happened all the time at Dragon Dan’s Adventure Depot for Pissed Off Dwarves.

  “Are they all like that?”

  “Are all what like that?”

  “Dwarves, I guess. That’s the first one I’ve ever seen and he seemed extremely irritated, right? Like a surly little viking.”

  “Oh, him. Yes, they always act like that. Here on the first floor, anyway. The entire dwarven society is vehemently anti-magic – except when it comes to food and drink.” Eusebio motioned toward the stairwell where the dwarf had gone up. “Our wee friend there was headed upstairs, because in addition to the library and apothecary, the second floor also features a renowned kitchen and brewery.”

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  “No kidding? So you’ve got the magic shop down here, the library and an apothecary upstairs, and something called a Ressurectory going on in the basement? That’s a lot.”

  “The Resurrectory is where we perform resurrections, and you’re not wrong.” He puffed out his chest. “The Adventure Depot is a lot to manage.”

  “And yet somehow even you seem to be doing alright.” Seymour appraised him up-and-down with his eyes, and then tilted his head, solemnly nodding in mock sympathy. “I think it’s inspiring.”

  “Rude.”

  “Yeah, that was too far, wasn’t it? Sorry, just feeling out my new colleague with some jokes.”

  “Therein lies your mistake,” Eusebio explained, “I’m not your colleague – I’m your manager. And you are my subordinate.”

  “My bad. Felt like we were vibing but I guess I should have stuck to insinuating that you’re a psycho killer instead of straight up questioning your competency.”

  “I must say, you’re quite different from most of the aliens with whom we’ve contracted in the past. None of the usual flattery and overwrought deference; all quips and clever tongue. How has that been working out for you?”

  “Well, last week I was shoveling mule dung up at the livery in Ghizo’s Crossing, and today I’m making an amazing first impression on the manager of the realm’s preeminent magic emporium.” Seymour smiled, hamming it up. “So why don’t you tell me how I’m doing?”

  “Not bad – but probably not as well as you think.” Eusebio gestured for Seymour to follow him as he began to move down the red-carpeted aisle. “How about I give you a tour?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Seymour followed Eusebio while he first led him on a course back to the front of the shop, where the armor-wearing mannequins were posed.

  “We get so many duplicates of most of this gear, it would simply be impossible to put everything out here on the floor.” Eusebio nodded at the armor displays. “Fortunately, the depot is equipped with an extra-dimensional vault. I’ll introduce you to it sometime, should the need arise.”

  A lot of this stuff was dropped by common monsters and Eusebio clearly thought it was boring. Nobody wanted to settle for +1 this and +2 that when the dungeon was also coughing up unique items like Jericho's Silksteel Blouse of the Falling Skies, which was not only a powerful piece of armor but fashionable, to boot.

  “But all of these newbie dungeon crawlers have to start somewhere,” he explained. “It’s a slow grind for most, incrementally building both their power suites and their gear sets by risking repeated dungeon crawls.”

  “How’s that, exactly? I mean I get how running the dungeon could help them acquire loot and gear and whatnot, but how exactly does it help them with their, uh, power suites?”

  “Each dungeon instance contains at least one boss, and sometimes mini-bosses, as well.” Seeing the confused look on Seymour’s face, Eusebio continued, “and any monster with the ‘Boss’ designation has the possibility to drop catalysts.”

  “Nice, but did you really just say 'dungeon instance’? Are you saying there are multiple copies of the same dungeon or something, so that multiple groups can run it at the same time?”

  “Not exactly,” Eusebio elaborated, “but close. Vol’kara sorts teams of adventurers into their own wings as soon as they enter via the Sorting Steps. So while there are no duplicate wings, there still exist enough individual instances for many, many parties to embark on simultaneous crawls – without ever running into one another.”

  “That’s wild. I assume these Sorting Steps are some kind of magical staircase that sorts them—” Seymour stopped and shook his head, hearing his own reduncay. “I’m sorry. Let’s just get back to you showing me around.”

  Eusebio smirked. “You’re the boss.”

  The tour continued. Another broad row of merch contained a hodgepodge of common adventuring gear such as unbreakable ropes and bags of holding. There were bedrolls which would replenish an adventurer’s vitality more quickly, skeleton keys to open every door, convertible icons to suit any religion on the fly, bandages which produced their own ointment, and a wide variety of light sources running the gamut from waterproof torches to the Lantern of Indomitable Sight, which Eusebio explained was guaranteed to cast its light no matter the circumstance, even curing temporary blindness and penetrating darkness imposed through magical means.

  Next, Eusebio led him to the jewelry department. Toward the rear of the shop, a full quarter of the showroom’s floor-space was occupied by a series of long, glass-fronted jewelry counters. Sharp-dressed salespeople prowled the area, their senses clearly attuned to the presence of imperial chits. They didn’t give Seymour a second glance.

  “I almost forgot.” Eusebio pulled a strange pair of goggles from a small black bag tied to his rope-belt and held them out for Seymour to take. “You’re gonna need these.”

  “What are they, exactly?” Turning them over in his hands, they were closer to light safety glasses than snow goggles.

  “Those are Gnomish Catalogoggles. They’ll allow you to see detailed information about magical items that won’t otherwise be visible with the naked eye.”

  “Magical gnome goggles.” Seymour snorted. “What a world.”

  “No, that’s not quite right. The goggles aren’t magic, per se. They’re made by gnomes, yes, but by definition that means they’re techno-magic. I know it might feel like a meaningless distinction to a Riftborn but—” Eusebio stopped himself mid-sentence. “I’m getting off-track here. Just know that you’ll need them for the task to which you’ll soon be assigned.”

  They looked like ordinary, round-rimmed spectacles but with extra thick, blue-green lenses. The frames were made from a dull, silver metal and were etched with strange, blocky rune-things which Seymour had to assume was writing in the language of gnomes.

  “So, how do they work?”

  “Why don’t you try putting them on?”

  “Alright then.”

  Seymour slid the goggles on and squinted as the lenses lit up an icy-blue color before filling with lines of green text that reminded him of the interface window which had briefly appeared the night before in his room with Dathon. Whole alphabets of strange characters scrolled past at an incomprehensible pace, and then suddenly the letters became English. A description of the goggles was briefly displayed within a soft-cornered, rectangular window which appeared in the lower-left field of his vision:

  Certified Gnomish Technomagic Expert? The absurdity of the phrase brought an unexpected smile to Seymour’s lips. Like these gnomes were shady little tech bro shitheads or something.

  “Alright, seems like the goggles work. What now?”

  “Rings are some of the most common items looted by crawlers.” Eusebio used his keystone—a plain-looking rock—to unlock a display counter by briefly touching the two together. Then he reached inside and retrieved a mannequin hand. It wore rings on all four fingers and even the thumb. He slipped one off and tossed it to Seymour, who caught it with both hands cupped. “Take a look at that with your goggles.”

  But before he could follow Eusebio’s instructions, Seymour heard a familiar click and was suddenly inundated with the same sort of sacred geometry he’d seen the night before when Chester had handed him the recruitment letter – but there was one notable difference. This time, Seymour’s pig-face tattoo—his Sigil of Greed—tingled. It might have happened the night prior, too, and he simply hadn’t noticed.

  That must be how I collect sacred schematics, he reasoned. By touching an object to my sigil.

  Before he could ponder the idea any further, the ring’s label appeared in the corner of his vision, overlapping with the description of the Gnomish Catalogoggles, but somehow he could still easily distinguish the two. He realized this peculiarity was due to the fact that the schematic label was actually written within his mind:

  “Seymour?” Eusebio asked, “are you alright?”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ve just never actually touched a magic ring before. We don’t have anything like this where I come from, except in stories.”

  “Wait until you take a look at it with those Catalogoggles.”

  “Right, right. I’m on it.”

  The weird goggles on his face began to hum with an energy that wasn’t quite electricity. The lenses lit up with the same icy-blue tinge as before and lines of text began to appear at the top of his vision. The messages felt distinctly like an old computer booting up:

  Seymour pulled the goggles off and just stared at them.

  Eusebio frowned. “What’s wrong?”

  “Uh, it says the goggles need to have their catalogue updated or something. I think, and before I even say this out loud I know it sounds ridiculous, but I think this thing says it needs to update descriptions for like—” He paused a beat to count the digits. “Uh, seventeen trillion pieces of merch, I guess?”

  “Oh, is that all? Just give it a minute.”

  Seymour cocked his head skeptically. “A minute? Seriously?”

  The goggles beeped innocently in his hand, indicating the update was already complete. Eusebio grinned.

  Seymour then examined the ring once more, and a label revealing its details replaced that of the goggles:

  “Put it on, it’s yours to keep.” Eusebio returned the mannequin hand to its display and relocked the case. “On the house.”

  The subtle message Eusebio was sending by giving him this Ring of Diplomacy wasn’t lost on Seymour.

  “Look, sorry about before,” Seymour apologized, slipping the ring on and admiring its fit. Somehow, he subconsciously realized the minor increase to his Mind attribute was enough to increase the capacity of his Object Memory by five. He quickly put on his poker face to keep that information to himself, and returned his attention to Eusebio. “I get it, I went too far. I just…. I guess sometimes I probably use bad jokes to get through stressful situations, but I know I need to be more professional—”

  Eusebio held up a hand and cut him off. “There’s a time and place for fun, and sometimes it’s the salesfloor. But usually not.”

  “I get it. Selling magic is serious business.”

  “Down here it most certainly is.” He nodded toward the nearby, stone stairwell where the surly dwarf had gone stomping up just a short while earlier. “So perhaps it’s a blessing in disguise that you’ll be working upstairs.”

  “What exactly am I going to be doing?”

  “How about I just show you?”

  He started briskly toward the stairwell, and Seymour hustled to keep up.