Fur Trader
The fur trader sat at his stall outside the castle walls. He watched the Dwarven troll hunters haggle over a massive pelt that weighed as much as a cow.
The filthy foreigners, coming here to take business away from him, to take food from his family’s mouth.
Before those uncouth savages had come to White River, everything had been perfect. He could set his own prices, and he had lived well from fairly small, substandard pelts.
He stood and rearranged his samples for the tenth time; maybe a buyer would come. But it had been a week since his last sale.
Old Wilmer had come by and said, “I need some rabbit for my grandson’s gloves. How’s the business?”
“Rabbits are good this year. Business is booming.”
Old Wilmer nodded, playing along with the lie. “Ya know them Dwarven are all the rage. I hear they are planning to stay. Maybe start some kind of village of their own.”
“Rages come and go,” the fur trader growled. “Remember when everyone wanted Elvenari shoes a few years back?”
Old Wilmer dug through the stack of rabbit pelts. “Still, they seem like a good bunch. Strong fellers, and brave if they’re taking on full-grown trolls. Might be good to have them on our side, what with the Duke grumbling with his neighbors again.”
“They’ll wipe out the stock, leaving us with nothing, then move on. They’re like rats.”
Old Wilmer found a nice grey skin and, after a bit of half-hearted haggling, handed over a few coppers.
That had been a week ago. Now, he watched as Old Wilmer stood in a small crowd near the Dwarven traders, smiling and chatting. It was like a gods be damned birthday party over there. Well, he would remember after the foreigners were gone and they needed his furs again. Yes, they would pay handsomely for leaving the fur trader in the cold.
The fur trader rearranged his wares and sat, sharpening his long knife as he gnawed on his malice, making dire promises to himself. Maybe some harm will befall these Dwarven intruders. The woods were dangerous, after all.
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