The Bag that Broke the Warlock

 

It began, as many great tragedies do, in the South Market at dawn.

I had my eye on a particular roll of storm-cured leather—supple as a lullaby and twice as stubborn. Perfect for an apothecary pouch. Unfortunately, so did Elarion Silvershade, an elf so old he remembers when the stalls were trees and insists on reminding everyone. We locked eyes across the market lane, both reaching for our coin purses at the same time.

No words were exchanged. There was no need.

The bell rang. And off we went.

Now, elves stride—long legs, smug posture, the confidence of someone who lives three centuries longer than their debts. But I know those stalls. I ducked under a spice table, vaulted a crate of turnips (apologized later), and slid—slid—between two arguing fishmongers. Elarion tried to take the direct route. Rookie mistake. I hit the leather stall first, slapped down my coin, and by the time he arrived, all he could do was sigh like autumn settling in.

“One day,” he said, “you will slow.”

“Not today,” I told him, already rolling the leather under my arm.

Next came the vials.

Glass is trickier than leather—too pricey to buy outright when you can win it instead. So I found myself at the Bent Coin Tavern, sitting across from Malvek the Warlock, whose imp familiar cheats terribly at Rumheavy if you don’t glare at it just right.

Rumheavy, for the uninitiated, is a game of cards, metal tokens, bluffing, and pretending you’re not counting the clinks when your opponent’s hand moves. We played three rounds. He hexed my luck (subtly), I countered by “accidentally” spilling ale on his sleeve. Fourth round, I went all in with a terrible hand and a magnificent lie.

Malvek folded.

I walked away with six glass vials, two cracked tokens, and the deep satisfaction of having beaten a man who smelled faintly of brimstone and poor decisions.

With leather stitched, vials wrapped, and herbs tucked snugly inside, the pouch was finished—a tidy little thing, practical and proud.

That’s when Perrin Underbough wandered up. Halfling lad, eyes too big for his face, clutching a notebook upside down. He told me—voice wobbling—that he was trying to learn herb-gathering for his grandmother. Said her lungs were weak, and the healers were expensive.

Now, I’m a merchant, yes. But I’m not heartless.

I showed him how the pouch worked, which vial was for what, and which herbs not to mix unless he fancied turning his grandmother blue. Then I knocked the price down to something he could manage and slipped in an extra sprig of moonmint for free.

He grinned like I’d handed him a crown.

So that’s the tale of that apothecary pouch: won by speed, earned by cunning, and sold with a lighter coin purse but a heavier heart—in the good way.

If you ever see a halfling in the fields muttering plant names to himself, tell him Sterling says hello. And tell Elarion Silvershade I’m still faster than he is.