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Artefact Shop

Charles Bradford walked back and forth inside his shop, waiting for customers. It had been four days since he sold one single artefact, and the last piece he sold was a necklace—an ugly one if he might add, even though it had an interesting history behind it—but other than that, no one had even stepped inside to look around. No one was even remotely interested in magical antiques or simple yet beautiful crafts nowadays.

He sighed wistfully and ran a hand through his grey hair. He had everything anyone could want, craft-wise, from antiques to magical weaponry to crafts of his own, and he took care of every single piece he had. His shop was clean, he made sure of that. But why wasn't anyone interested?

Technology. The answer came to him and he sighed angrily, kicking the air in frustration. Ever since those 'mobile' phones came out, nobody thought of owning an artefact; instead, everyone wanted to own one of those things. He never saw the appeal of them. His daughter wanted one of those mobiles, but he had refused rather vehemently.

He looked at his wristwatch then sighed when he read the time. It was almost nine—he closed his shop at ten most days and eleven when he had customers because he took that as good luck—and he already wanted to get back to his apartment and relax, maybe sleep if his wife had already gone to bed. He might close early that night, it wasn't as if someone would come at that moment.

He couldn't be more wrong; because at that exact second, the hanging doorbell dinged as it went forward and back with the door's movement. Bradford looked up from the counter to see who had come in. The person wore a black cloak and had the hood over his head, the craftsman was unable to identify the potential customer; but he guessed he was a man by his build and posture. His whole body, though, was hidden by that cloak.

Bradford coughed. "What can I help you with, sir?" He offered politely, hands behind his back as he studied the man over his circular specs.

The hooded man had his back to Bradford as he examined the crafts, old and new, that was lined on the shelves. "Do you craft?" The question was brisk and blunt.

"It depends, but yes, I do craft." He answered honestly, confident in his abilities at crafting, as he walked up to the still-hooded man.

The man turned around to face him, only his nose and mouth were visible now. "Magically?"

"Yes."

The man smiled. "Good," he said then turned around to examine the shelves once more. "I doubt you have what I need."

"What is it, sir, that you need?"

The man chuckled darkly. "I want something that, let's say, conjure things."

Bradford nodded his head even though the man couldn't see it. "I can make it, I have the material."

"Spirits."

It was just one word. One word that could be understood in so many ways. But Bradford understood what the man implied exactly. The craftsman paled drastically and took a step backwards.

"S...Spirits?"

The man turned around and smirked as he nodded. "Yes, spirits," he drawled.

"Sir, you can't possibly mean..." Bradford paused, searching for the right words to say; the man looked dangerous enough. "Conjuring spirits..."

"Oh, but I do mean conjuring spirits," he chuckled again and walked towards Bradford. "What I want is simple...something that can conjure spirits, whatever, and you are the only one in Britain that can craft magical items."

"Conjuring...things that conjure...spirits...aren't magical," Bradford started hesitantly, but the man made no sound of objection so he continued. "They are...shamanic. Only Shamans can craft—"

"Nonsense," the man interrupted with a sneer. "If you can craft magical items then you can craft 'shamanic' items as well. They are the same, Shamans and Wizards," the man grabbed Bradford by the collar of his shirt and pulled him towards himself. "Can you make them or not?" he hissed out his question.

Bradford wrinkled his nose at the close proximity of their faces. "I believe you mean 'Mages' and not 'Wizards', sir. And even if I could make them, it is way too dangerous to play with...the Other World." The last part was uttered quietly as if merely talking about spirits was bad.

The man ignored that. "I want it in three days," he let him go. Bradford heard the unspoken 'or else' clearly.

Bradford adjusted his collar. "With due respect, sir, but are you a Shaman?" He asked somewhat bravely.

The sneer he got was very much an answer to the question.

"Not a Shaman, then," Bradford whispered to himself. "Sir, you could hurt yourself."

"I am a Mage." The man replied simply, and that wasn't persuasive at all.

"All the more reason why you shouldn't request it. A normal human won't be hurt by it, a Shaman—a Conjurer to be exact won't be hurt as well, but Mages..." Bradford stopped speaking at the sight of the man clenching and unclenching his fist.

"You make it, I take it."

Bradford didn't reply to that.

"I will pay you whatever you want, I just want it in three days."

The craftsman's eyes lit up greedily. "What should I call you, sir?"

The man turned around and walked towards the door. "Bates," he said curtly and then headed towards the door. He paused right before passing the threshold. "And if you could, you might as well craft something that Mergers and Controllers use, I'll double up the price," then he left the shop.

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