The 7th of Cylus 720
The directions provided by the Employment Office in mind, Oberan traversed the cobbled Etzos streets of the Commercial Circle. He knew the layout of the city well enough to find his way based on the address designation, but that only got him to the general area. Once there, he needed to pay close attention to the house numbers and signs to actually keep going the right direction. Sometimes he’d enter the wrong street, realize it several steps in, and backtrack. Sometimes it took longer before he noticed. Such were the consequences for refusing the embarrassment brought by using a map of the city he’d lived in for years.
Despite the setbacks, Moore’s Moore Than Tanwood was not that difficult to find. In part due to the address designation code, yes. However, it mostly was because once you looked at the place, you knew you were where you needed to be. The place was fairly standard for a shop or atelier in the Commercial Circle, yet it differed itself from others with the fine pieces of non-tanwood furniture stalled out in the large window.
And the horrible sign with the equally terrible name on it too, of course.
Oh, Oberan did appreciate the pun, but wasn’t pleased with its incorporation in the name. Perhaps he simply didn’t get it. He wasn’t a carpenter, after all. Was there something wrong with tanwood? Was it a joke among craftsman to laugh at the material’s expense? And was the common customer supposed to understand that joke?
Each question that popped into his head just made him like the name less and less.
Still, there was no doubt about this being the right place. Oberan couldn’t recall the memory in vivid detail, but everything he had managed to remember aligned perfectly with the sight before him. The first part of the signboard, with the little chip missing near the ‘M’. That particular woodgrain at the bottom, which looked like a sideways smiley face. An ornate door underneath, maintaining a fine balance between elegant and overly gaudy.
Yeah, this was the place.
A glance through the window revealed no customers inside, so the Mortalborn entered the building. Above his head, a chime clinked with glee as the door opened and closed. Many different pieces of admittedly fine woodwork stood on display in the main chamber. Beds, closets, chests, rocking chairs, some kind of dangerous-looking contraption on wheels. The last one had a tiny chair embedded in its design, and possessed several levers and a complicated mechanic, which --according to the plaque—allowed the structure to be folded into only a quarter of its size. The wheels, meanwhile, made it very portable.
Why anyone would buy a foldable baby chair on wheels was beyond Oberan though.
From a back room, likely the atelier itself, a man came rushing in. Though he’d clearly made an effort to brush most of it off, sawdust clung to his shirt and pants. He ran a hand through his hair to fix it a bit, a smile on his friendly face. Eager words of welcome were spoken.
Oberan had the distinct impression he was going to ruin this fellow’s day.
“Are you Mr. Harrin Moore?” the thief asked. “I’ve got some questions about a piece from your atelier. Do you have some time for me at the moment, or are you preoccupied?”
