Up a small hill, away from the docks, stood an old two-story smithery. Old, as the shingles had long faded on the top, missing and patched in other places with mismatched tiles. The walls along the sides favoring the sea were weathered, greyed like the ghosts of many rumored to have met their end in the water not-too-near, not-too-far.
Months ago, a black-haired man had bought the smithery and had taken to refurbishing it. A few weeks came and went, as two of the walls were demolished and extended, bricks taking the place of wood paneling and several chimneys clustered like gossiping midwives. New black shingles covered that section. Glass, odd white plastic machines, and all manner of equipment were brought in next.
Nary a month passed before another extension was added and large windows were added, a sign declaring, in this little spot of the world with all the tripe that accompanied the "k" on the end of magick, "The Crossed Wands." A stock of precious metals and minerals and charms and trinkets began to fill shelves that appeared. To the chagrin of many of the larger sailors who wandered in to browse, a dusty eagle owl stood at the register when the shop opened, hours at dawn and dusk, replaced by the black-haired man for the brighter hours of the day.
In the evening, a small bout of colored smoke " green, blue, red, green, yellow and white, even once a pleasurable shade of magenta " spilled from the chimney stacks for an hour at a time.
Two months passed as such, and even once, new paint was applied to a section of wood panel wall.
Then, one night, screams from a dozen voices tore out from upstairs. Lights flickered, animals cowered, and then all was silent.
The next day, the owl was seen once, turning the sign inside from "Open" to "Closed till further notice."
Months passed. The man was nowhere to be seen. Young and old voices were heard here and there, emanating from inside as whispers in the dark. Rumors ran about and talk of a haunting murmured like the voices others proclaimed to hear.
The shop tried to reopen, the black-haired man returning. Yet, his wraith-like demeanor and color did little to assuage the rumors. How his shop remained open with such little business was a mystery, though he began to show a little more strength and liveliness as time passed on.
Others, still, claimed that he sold materials and charms to the highest bidder, no matter what their purpose was, and that was how he survived.
Months ago, a black-haired man had bought the smithery and had taken to refurbishing it. A few weeks came and went, as two of the walls were demolished and extended, bricks taking the place of wood paneling and several chimneys clustered like gossiping midwives. New black shingles covered that section. Glass, odd white plastic machines, and all manner of equipment were brought in next.
Nary a month passed before another extension was added and large windows were added, a sign declaring, in this little spot of the world with all the tripe that accompanied the "k" on the end of magick, "The Crossed Wands." A stock of precious metals and minerals and charms and trinkets began to fill shelves that appeared. To the chagrin of many of the larger sailors who wandered in to browse, a dusty eagle owl stood at the register when the shop opened, hours at dawn and dusk, replaced by the black-haired man for the brighter hours of the day.
In the evening, a small bout of colored smoke " green, blue, red, green, yellow and white, even once a pleasurable shade of magenta " spilled from the chimney stacks for an hour at a time.
Two months passed as such, and even once, new paint was applied to a section of wood panel wall.
Then, one night, screams from a dozen voices tore out from upstairs. Lights flickered, animals cowered, and then all was silent.
The next day, the owl was seen once, turning the sign inside from "Open" to "Closed till further notice."
Months passed. The man was nowhere to be seen. Young and old voices were heard here and there, emanating from inside as whispers in the dark. Rumors ran about and talk of a haunting murmured like the voices others proclaimed to hear.
The shop tried to reopen, the black-haired man returning. Yet, his wraith-like demeanor and color did little to assuage the rumors. How his shop remained open with such little business was a mystery, though he began to show a little more strength and liveliness as time passed on.
Others, still, claimed that he sold materials and charms to the highest bidder, no matter what their purpose was, and that was how he survived.