Inspiration

by Taylor Vincent

The scraggly candle burned down toward the tabletop as the scraggly elf seated at the table flipped
lazily between leaves of parchment. He glanced out at the ruins of Silvermoon and sighed, then looked
back to his papers.

Your savings are gone. Rent is due. The devout-looking robes you know how to make from the
monastery aren't selling now that no one wants to trust the Light anymore. You have nothing left but
faith, and you just buried the family that trusted in faith. You saw what it got them.

A breeze flew in the window and rustled the priest's papers. He folded them up and tucked them into
his robes, then shuffled down the mostly intact stairs and out into the shantytown marketplace of
Silvermoon.

Of course there were goblins. The little green things crawled out of the woodwork anywhere there
was a premium. Food, clean water, good equipment for fighting off Scourge stragglers - all were in
short supply, and the greenskins made a killing. Varendil walked past two to an elven merchant, paying
him for a hard roll and taking a seat at a bench to begin eating.

One of the goblins started barking more loudly. "Look at this fellow next to me - his clothes are torn,
his face is dirty. Does that look like a merchant you can trust? I look this good because I'm a success,
because my clients and customers leave happy!"

That piece of crap, Varendil thought. He's dirty because he's a refugee here too, not a wealthy
interloper here to take advantage of us. No one's going to fall for--

Two elves left the raggedy elven merchant's line and wandered over to the goblin's stall.

Varendil twitched, then stood, stomping angrily over to the goblin vendor. The dark green
entrepreneur grinned far too widely and gestured down at his goods.

"Don't smirk at me, you dragonhawk droppings. How can you sell this..." As Varendil looked down, he
noticed that not a single thing at the counter was a necessity. Dice. Musical instruments. Softcore
pornography. "This... that elf you're badmouthing is selling food! This is garbage!"

The goblin didn't frown, didn't wince, but shook his head politely. "Sir, people need to feel
comfortable at times like this! Magnax's Fine Sundries is here to help ease the hard times. No one's
going to starve! Why not feel a little more lively as we rebuild?" An elf mumbled something as he
shoved past Varendil to grab a flute from the counter, and Magnax clapped the elf on the shoulder like
a brother as he began finalizing the sale.

Varendil drifted away from the stand and out of the marketplace, slowly working his way back to his
rented room. He flopped onto his bed for a few moments, then slowly sat up and surveyed his
remaining belongings. A few bolts of cloth, his sewing equipment. A couple of holy tomes. Hair dye.

Varendil walked confidently into the marketplace the next morning, hair dyed, face washed, and
brand-new priestly robes hanging handsomely from his frame. Holy tomes hung from braided rope at
Varendil's side, a banner rolled up beneath his other arm. He'd memorized the important words
within the books long ago, and a quick refreshment the night before had ensured the words stayed in
his head. Magnax was talking up some of his products to a small crowd that had gathered. Putting his
bony shoulder down, Varendil pushed right through the crowd. "Don't let that swine fool you," he
muttered loudly as he neared the center of the group.

It worked. The surrounding people parted for him, and Varendil took his place opposite the
impromptu street from the goblin. He grinned as if to bear fangs at the goblin for a moment, then
adopted a much more saccharin smile toward the crowd. "If you can afford more than bread, don't
buy cheap nothings from that swindler," he said.

One incredulous shopper snorted. "Oh? And what are you selling?" he asked.

The perfect setup. Varendil smiled and bowed slightly. "Sir, I am selling peace of mind."

If people wanted to feel better, he could provide that service. If people were going to spend money to
feel better, he'd make sure they spent it with elves like him, not profiteering outlanders. And if amoral
goblin sales tactics worked? Well, he'd just have to out-crazy the crazies.

With a grunt, Varendil planted the banner between some cobblestones. It unfurled into the breeze.
On it was sewn a family crest above the words "Honest Varendil's Discount Weddings." And below
that, in a more italicized script: "Engaging you on a higher level."

Magnax started laughing hysterically. Most of the bystanders stood and blinked. Two elves in the
crowd that had been holding hands, however, looked up and stepped forward.

Slowly, a smile crept across Varendil's face.

Varendil Dawnblade glanced up at the rebuilt spires of Silvermoon, then down at the diminutive
green-skinned fellow at his side. "Fire ought to be warm enough now, Magnax," he said, looking away
again.

Magnax straightened his shirt, which bore a familiar family crest, business name, and tagline. He
looked down at the shovel in his hands, then at the pile of musical instruments, tomes of ill repute,
and other sundries. "No?" he offered.

"Now now," Varendil said as he took a seat in the grass outside the city walls next to his wife and his
Argent Gruntling. "Are you forgetting whose employee you are? Not to mention that the pile of crap
you're supposed to be burning is -my- property, not yours. If you don't do your job, you don't get your
pay. And then you'll have to go begging for hard rolls."

Magnax sighed and began shoveling the pile of sundries into the bonfire. Lanuria and Torky affixed
marshmallows to sticks and waggled them over the fire. Varendil put on a pair of tinted goggles and
smiled.