Chapter 017 - An Imprecise Term for an Imprecise Palate

  Mark stepped back out into the bustling market, he had the essentials, but the final, most critical item on his list remained. Following Deirdre’s directions, he made his way toward the east side of the main square, in search of what she described him, a miserable old goat who sold tea.

  The persistent sensation of being watched had returned the moment he left Deirdre’s shop. It was a low-level unease that seemed to haunt him, giving him the creeps. He scanned the crowds again but saw nothing out of the ordinary, just the busy, purposeful movements of a town in the middle of its workday. He made the conscious decision to ignore it, setting it aside as paranoia of being in a new town, and in this case, a new world.

  His path took him past a stall that stopped him in his tracks. Displayed on shelves of dark, polished wood were a series of miniature, amazingly detailed steam trains. They weren't static models, they were fully functional, seeming alive. Tiny pistons pumped, wheels of polished brass turned on intricate tracks, and faint wisps of real steam puffed from miniature smokestacks. He was captivated. As a man who had been in the middle of a weeks-long 3D printing project of a fictional space station, he had a deep appreciation for this kind of craftsmanship.

  “A marvel of the Artisans’ Guild, are they not?” a voice said from behind the counter. The merchant was a middle-aged man with meticulous, oil-stained fingers and a proud smile.

  “They’re incredible,” Mark said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. “The detail… they’re much better than the plastic ones we have back home.”

  The merchant’s smile tightened into a look of confusion. “Plastic?” he asked, the word foreign on his tongue. “What would that be? Some kind of cheap ore?”

  Mark mentally kicked himself. It was another conversational rabbit hole he had no desire to explore. “Yes… cheap, mass-produced material,” he deflected, hoping the explanation would suffice. “Not worthy of this level of finesse. These are true masterworks.”

  The merchant unconsciously puffed up with pride, launching into a detailed explanation of the gear ratios of his finest model. After a few minutes of polite nodding, Mark managed to excuse himself and promised that in the future he would be purchasing himself a set.

  His next destination was exactly where Deirdre said it would be. It stood in stark contrast to the loud, chaotic energy of the rest of the market. It was a quiet, orderly space, with dozens of large, glass jars arranged in perfect rows on clean, unadorned shelves. Each jar was marked with a neat, calligraphic script. The air here smelled of dried leaves, strange exotic spices, and something vaguely floral.

  Behind the counter sat the proprietor. He was an old man, thin and gaunt, with a face like a dried apple and a cascade of long, white hair tied back with a simple leather cord. He wasn’t tending to his wares or engaging with customers, he simply sat on his tall stool, intelligent eyes scanning the crowd with an air of profound boredom and disdain. This had to be Old Man Hemlock.

  As Mark approached, the old man’s gaze fell upon him, and he looked Mark up and down with a slow, dismissive appraisal that made him feel like an insect. Mark felt a familiar sense of dread. He had dealt with enough difficult, arrogant senior executives in his old job to recognize the type. This was a man who wielded his niche expertise like a weapon.

  Mark took a breath, steeling himself. “Hello,” he began, trying for a friendly, disarming tone. “Deirdre at the Provisioners’ store sent me. She said you sell the best—”

  “I am Jack Hemlock,” the old man cut in, his voice a dry rasp. He did not stand or offer a hand. “Who sent you, who you are, and what you believe you know are all equally irrelevant to the contents of these jars.” He fixed Mark with a piercing, impatient glare. “My time is not a free commodity. What are you after?”

  The sheer, unapologetic rudeness was impressive, he could truly picture him standing in any stakeholder meeting. Arguing with people like that was always pointless, the way was with what they understood. “I’m looking for a strong black tea,” he said simply.

  Hemlock scoffed, a small, dismissive sound. “Strong,” he repeated, as if the word itself were the gravest of insults. “An imprecise term for an imprecise palate. Do you mean the bitter swill the miners slurp to stay awake? A crude, brutish infusion designed to strip the soot from one’s throat?” He gestured dismissively to a large, plain sack in the corner. “Or perhaps you’d be better suited to one of my gentle floral blends. Something a man or wife of your… delicate constitution might actually appreciate.”

  The old man was testing him, treating him like an idiot, which he imagines would be more than most would think. Mark refused to take the bait, a tea expert he was not, but he was a few points higher than a Tesco value tea bag. Instead, he met Hemlock’s condescending gaze and clarified his requirements with the calm precision of a man outlining project specifications.

  “I’m unfamiliar with local names, I’m looking for two types, actually,” Mark stated, his voice even. “The first is a strong black tea for the mornings. Something with enough character and depth that it doesn’t require milk or sugar to be palatable.” He paused, letting the specifications sink in. “The second would be another black tea, but for the evenings. Something less aggressive.”

  He saw a flicker of surprise in the old man’s sharp eyes. He pressed his advantage. “For the flavor profile, I’m fine with a nutty taste, but I would prefer something with a more malty character. Or, if you have it, perhaps something with a natural hint of orange zest, if that is a thing here.”

  For a long moment, Hemlock was silent. He stared at Mark, his sharp eyes narrowed in a new kind of assessment. The air of dismissive superiority hadn't vanished, but it was now joined by a flicker of grudging interest. He had been challenged on his own terms and found his opponent was not the amateur he had expected.

  “Hmph,” the old man finally grunted. He turned with a surprising swiftness, his long fingers dancing over the rows of glass jars. He pulled three down from the shelf. “For your morning, the Iron-Tooth Breakfast,” he announced, placing a dark green jar on the counter. “Robust, malty, with a clean finish. No milk required.” He then set down a second, slightly smaller blue jar. “For the evening, Goldsmoke River. Smoother, with a hint of smoked Ironwood. Calming.” He paused, then begrudgingly pulled down a third, orange-colored jar. “And this… the High Peak. Black tea, blended with the dried peel of the Sun-Orange. It would meet your requirements.”

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  Mark nodded, impressed despite the man’s sour demeanor. “They sound interesting. May I smell them first? I’d like to know what I’m buying.”

  Hemlock looked personally offended. “Smell them?” he snapped. “Do you doubt my palate? The scent in the jar is a pale, sleeping ghost compared to the brewed spirit of the leaf!”

  Just as he was about to launch into a longer tirade, his eyes flickered past Mark to the bustling market square. Mark glanced over his shoulder and saw that a few shoppers had paused, their attention caught by the exchange between the town’s infamous tea master and the stranger. Hemlock’s jaw tightened. Public spectacles were clearly bad for business.

  With a long, theatrical sigh of deepest suffering, he relented. “Fine,” he hissed, pulling the heavy cork stoppers from the jars. “But be quick. You are agitating the leaves with your crude curiosity.”

  Mark ignored the jab and leaned forward, carefully inhaling the aroma from each jar. The Breakfast Brew was rich and malty, just as described. The Goldsmoke River had a fascinating, almost savory smokiness. But the High Peak was the real winner, a bright, clean citrus note woven through the deep scent of the black tea.

  “I’ll take all three,” Mark decided. “How much?”

  “Three silver per measure, Four for the High Peak” Hemlock stated flatly, a price that sounded intentionally high.

  Mark thought of Deirdre’s playful warning about merchants. He met the old man’s gaze. “I’ll give you two silver each.”

  Hemlock’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of what might have been respect in his otherwise stern expression. He grumbled under his breath about upstarts and the decline of civilization before giving a sharp, curt nod. “Fine. But only because your lingering presence is devaluing my stall.”

  Mark counted out the six silver coins as Hemlock meticulously weighed out the tea leaves, pouring them into three small, neatly folded paper bags. He took his purchase, a feeling of quiet triumph washing over him.

  With his second win of the day, Mark left the market square, a genuine smile on his face. He felt pleased with himself, a feeling that had been in short supply since his arrival. He had navigated the town, handled its people, and successfully completed his objective. It was a small, mundane victory, but in this new, overwhelming world, it felt monumental.

  The wicker basket was heavy in his hand, a constant, straining reminder of his physical weakness, but he found he wasn't in a hurry to return to the quiet solitude of his house. Instead of taking the most direct route, he chose a scenic pathway that wound through a smaller residential area. The architecture was still the same ruggedly beautiful blend of dark timber and polished metal, but it was softened here by small, meticulously-tended gardens vibrant with strange mountain flowers.

  He passed a children's playground and paused. The climbing frames were not the brightly-colored plastic and cheap metal of his world, but complex, beautiful structures of smooth woods and gleaming metals, with moving gears and swinging rings. It was a perfect, miniature representation of the town itself: functional, masterfully engineered, and possessing a strange, anachronistic beauty. The sight of children laughing as they played, so normal and yet so alien, sent a sharp, unexpected pang of homesickness through him. He could appreciate the beauty of this city, but it only served to highlight how far he was from his own.

  Through the moment of homesickness he became sure, he was being watched, a persistent shadow at the edge of his senses. It wasn't just the fleeting glances of curious townsfolk anymore, there was a focused, deliberate attention aimed towards him. In the relative safety of the crowded streets, he chose not to panic, but to observe.

  He caught the first glimpse out of the corner of his eye, a woman leaning against the wall of a smithy, seemingly examining a set of tools. She was athletic and wiry, dressed in worn but practical leather armor, and her eyes were sharp and perceptive. He looked away for a second, and when he looked back, she was gone. A few minutes later, as he rounded a corner, he saw her again. This time she was speaking to another merchant, her posture relaxed, but he felt her gaze flick towards him for a fraction of a second before she turned and vanished into the crowd.

  It was the same face, the same woman, thinking back he may have seen her earlier in the day, but he wasn't paying attention then. She wasn't just watching, she appeared to be shadowing him with a quiet, unnerving professionalism. He quickened his pace, the weight of the basket suddenly forgotten, replaced by the heavy, chilling weight of her unseen gaze.

  With the certainty that he was being followed, all thoughts of a leisurely, scenic walk had vanished. The pleasant weight of the basket in his hand now felt like a liability, slowing him down. He immediately changed course, turning off the quieter residential path and heading back toward the crowded main thoroughfare. There was safety in numbers, or at least the illusion of it. A crowd meant witnesses, and witnesses made it harder for anyone to try anything unnoticed, or potentially others to spot something wrong.

  He merged into the flow of people, keeping his head down and his pace as brisk as his aching muscles and heavy basket would allow. He didn't dare look back to see if the woman in leathers was still there. He just focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the comforting walls of his temporary home his only goal.

  He didn't get far.

  There was no sound, no warning. One moment, the path ahead was a clear space in the bustling crowd. The next, it was occupied. A blur of white and grey erupted from a narrow alleyway, landing with an impossible, silent grace in the middle of the cobblestone street.

  It was the cat. The nightmare creature from the forest. A massive snow leopard, its fur a dazzling mix of silvery-white and grey, marked with rosettes of a brilliant, cold blue. It stood taller than his waist, its muscles coiled with a silent, lethal power. But it was the eyes that paralyzed him, those same cold, glowing blue orbs that had stared at him in the woods as the creature chewed on the remains of the imp.

  A collective gasp went through the crowd. The river of people parted instantly, a circle of space forming around the predator as shoppers and workers scrambled backward, adults shielding children, their faces a mixture of shock and primal fear.

  Several other, much larger people moved effortlessly from stalls and buildings, many holding tools of their trade, some holding true weapons, all at the ready to prevent some horrific scene from taking place.

  "Dawn!" a merchant shouted from the safety of his stall, his voice raging with anger. "Get your filthy beast under control before someone puts a crossbow bolt in it!"

  The name registered somewhere in the back of Mark's terrified mind, but it was a distant, unimportant fact. All he could see was the monster. His hard-won confidence, his small victories in the market, all of it evaporated in a flood of pure, undiluted terror. His fingers went numb. The wicker basket slipped from his grasp, hitting the cobblestones with a sickening crunch of breaking eggs.

  He stumbled backward, not even feeling the solid wall of a shop hit his back. He was trapped, his breath catching in his throat, his world shrinking to the silent, unblinking stare of the beautiful, terrible creature that haunted his nightmares.