Wyrmhollow Market Mayhem

Ah, Wyrmhollow Market! The place where dreams (and sometimes curses) come to die! It’s a madhouse, a beautiful, chaotic tumble of folk from all walks of life, from stooped old witches hawking dubious potions to adventurers flaunting swords that definitely look cursed. The cobblestone streets are packed tighter than a goblin’s treasure hoard—except there are no valuables here, just a whole lotta trouble.

I had a stall set up on the edge of the square, my latest haul of so-called “curiosities” spread across a tattered cloth. You know, a few trinkets, a couple of cursed artifacts, and—oh!—a handful of enchanted rings. The perfect way to make a quick coin—or better yet, get someone else to make their quick coin.

“Step right up! Get yer hands on the finest cursed rings this side of the Black Thicket!” I called, waving my hands theatrically.

A few folks stumbled over, eyes glinting with interest. Wyrmhollow’s market is never without its share of brave (or foolhardy) adventurers. One of ‘em, a big ol’ half-elf with a dagger on each side and a cloak that looked like it had seen better days, gave me a curious look. “What kind of curses?” he asked, all smug-like, like he thought he’d seen it all.

“Ah, just the usual!” I grinned, giving the half-elf a sly wink. “You know, the kind that gives you bad luck or makes you spill your drink… maybe even turn your hair bright purple for a week. Nothin’ too dangerous.”

His eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued. Adventurers, they always think they can handle the worst curses. Little do they know, my rings don’t just give bad luck. Oh no. They do much, much worse.

One ring in particular caught the half-elf’s attention. It was a gold band, set with a sparkling emerald that seemed to pulse faintly in the sunlight. The kind of thing you’d expect some noble to wear while they plotted to take over the world. “This one,” he said, grabbing it with no hesitation. “How much?”

“Ah, that one’s a real gem, no pun intended!” I cackled, rubbing my hands together. “It’s a bit… chatty, though. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

I handed him the ring with a dramatic flourish, watching as he slipped it onto his finger. His eyes widened in confusion as the ring suddenly hummed and whispered, “Oh, look at you. Handsome. But you’re about to regret this decision, friend.”

The half-elf froze, staring at the ring in disbelief. “What—?”

Before he could rip it off, the ring spoke again: “You’ve made a terrible mistake, but hey, at least you’ve got great taste. Too bad about the curse, though. Hope you like purple!”

“Oh, I did warn you,” I said, grinning ear to ear. “Purple hair’s a bit… tricky to get rid of. You’ll be spending a lot of time at the dye stalls, I reckon.”

Suddenly, the ring seemed to ramp up its antics. It began to laugh—loudly, obnoxiously—and then, poof, a giant cloud of glitter erupted from the gemstone. Glitter everywhere. The market stall was suddenly filled with sparkles, and in the blink of an eye, the half-elf’s hair turned a shockingly vibrant shade of violet.

The crowd around us gasped.

“You see?” I said, motioning toward the stunned adventurer. “Perfectly harmless.“

But that’s when things really got out of hand.

The half-elf, in his panic, started swatting at the glitter, shaking his head and trying to pull the ring off. The more he struggled, the louder the ring laughed. And of course, that’s when my other customers—those friendly folks who like to get a good look at chaos—decided to get involved.

A goblin with three eyes and a squeaky voice shouted, “Don’t let it touch your skin! You’ll turn into a bug!”

Another adventurer, a burly dwarf with a beard that could hide a whole family of rats, elbowed his way through the crowd. “What’s this? A cursed ring? Can’t be worse than the one I bought from that hag down the lane!”

Oh, it was an absolute circus. The half-elf was running in circles, trying to avoid his new purple hair, while other market-goers crowded in for a closer look.

At that moment, I spotted a tiny human child—too curious for their own good—sneaking up behind me to try and grab the last ring I had left. I tried to shout, “Hey! You’re gonna—”

But it was too late. They grabbed the ring with a gleam in their eye, and I knew it was only a matter of seconds before another disaster would unfold.

The next ring—a beautiful sapphire set in tarnished silver—exploded in a burst of blue light. The kid’s voice suddenly boomed out in a deep, thundering tone. “I am the mighty dragon of the blue mountains!” they bellowed, flailing their arms wildly. “Bow before me!”

This was getting out of hand. But I wasn’t about to lose my audience, oh no! This was good for business—real good.

So, I started yelling, “Only five gold!” as the child continued to shout nonsense, their voice growing louder with each passing second. Might want to get your own rings while they last, folks!

Amid the chaos, a couple of my regulars—mostly folks who had no business buying cursed items—pulled out bags of gold and tossed them at my feet, all while muttering about “trying it out for themselves.” By the time the half-elf was still trying to scrub the glitter off his skin and the child had transformed into a loud, incoherent “dragon,” the market was in full swing.

Ah, Wyrmhollow—where disaster is just another day of business. And if you’re lucky enough, you can get a ring that curses someone else for a change.