It took me months to track the mysterious proprietor of nameless carriage vendor that rolls around around Central Europe. He was as secretive as he was nondescript. He was simply a halfwit in a region full of just that.
The clerk stood there emotionless and uncaring, eyes glossy. I stood there as well, though obviously more uncomfortable than he.
I politely cleared my throat. “Yea?” He grunted, snapping alert, noticing me for the first time. “I’m here to first purchase tools,” I replied. I’d heard that ‘The Merchcant’ was... peculiar to put it likely. “Ah yes, tools. Of course the gentleman wants tools. I have quite the selection lately. Sells have had quite the uptick due to that nastiness Off the coast of Malta. Quite unpleasant, eh? Take a look, mate.” The Merchant walked to the back of his armored wagoner. He fumbled in his coat to find the required key and unlocked the back.
He opened the back door only have several objects (green bottles, a revolver, several stick of dynamite, a broadsword) fall into the mud. “Fulfill your hearts desire, eh mate? What are you hunting? Vampires? Mermaids? Demons?” I stepped into the armored beast and looked into the shelves, crates, and sacks of explosives, blades, poisons, and what appeared to be an American Gatling-Gun. “Yes,” I said.