Not the poetic kind—the kind that settled on his jars of dried foxglove and made the labels fade. Every morning, before the sun clawed over the Cinderwood peaks, Gren swept the plank floor of his shop, The Humble Hearth . He restocked the minor healing potions (three gold, no haggling), polished the iron dagger that no one had bought in six years, and fed the mangy cat, Kibble, who was technically a quest item but had chosen to stay.
“Let it,” Gren said.
“On the stool. Behind the counter. Now.” npc tales: the shopkeeper
Gren didn’t dream of gold or glory. He dreamed of dust. Not the poetic kind—the kind that settled on