Day One: A Slither in the Shadows   The room was quiet—just the rustling of pages and the soft thrum of evening magic in the walls of Isondale. Aakscree, feet up and book open, was nestled in her chair with a peaceful smirk… until her Bag of Holding tipped with a thump.   She sighed, lowering her book just in time to see Mimicat’s mischievous blur vanish into the enchanted sack.   “Little scoundrel,” she groaned. “I already fed you today.”   With a grumble, she fished inside, expecting fur or feathers.   Instead, her fingers curled around something cold and coiled.   She pulled it free.   The Staff of the Adder caught the candlelight—a serpent’s head carved into the tip, faintly pulsing with enchantment. Her brow arched.   “I remember you… but not where I got you,” she murmured.   Mimicat yowled from within the bag, and she yanked him out, cradling him like a squirmy loaf of judgment. “You're not eating the good stuff, you hear?”   She eyed the staff again.   “If I can’t remember why I have it, it’s probably time to let it go.”   ---   Day Two: Serpents for Sale   Selling magic was a delicate art in Isondale. Not because there were few buyers—but because there were too many.   Everyone wanted power. The trick was finding someone willing to pay for something they couldn’t steal.   Scree spent the morning tucked under her hood in the spell-trader’s quarter, listening, watching, sniffing the air for the scent of desperation or wealth.   The first shop she tried offered her 250 gold.   She laughed in their face.   “Sweetheart, the wrapping paper alone is worth that.”   She walked out, Mimicat perched smugly on her shoulder.   That evening, a bard played in the square.   “They faced a beast with many mouths, A False Hydra’s cursed cry…”   Scree smiled, holding back a snort.   “They forgot the part where I saved everyone with fungus.”   ---   Day Three: The Right Kind of Buyer   The third day brought better leads. Word was spreading that an up-and-coming elven collector named Virel ran a private gallery in the Highwood district. Scree, always preferring root to marble, grumbled as she crossed the threshold of velvet and candlelight.   Virel had golden eyes and a smile like a blade.   “You wish to part with it?” he asked, running fingers over the staff. “It’s a fine piece. Slightly… venomous.”   “Only if you’re not polite.”   He offered 300.   Scree tilted her head, ears twitching.   “I said polite.”   ---   Day Four: Marketplace Madrigals   Still no sale.   She left Virel’s parlor and made her way back to the lower markets, keeping her ears open. Traders spoke of northern troubles—entire caravans turning back, weird shapes on the hills.   In a tavern, she caught another bard—different town, same tune:   “A gnome gone mad, with gadgets wild, An Artificer of dread…”   Mimicat yowled along with the chorus until she stuffed him into her cloak.   She didn’t stop the grin this time.   ---   Day Five: Silver Tongues and Snake Staffs   The guild exchange near Isondale’s Mage Tower was always risky. You could sell an item there for a fortune—or get pickpocketed before stepping through the gate.   Scree went alone.   She found a dwarven professor arguing with an artificer about wand resonance. The staff caught his eye.   “Old Nemedian make?” he asked.   “Maybe. I pulled it out of a pocket dimension filled with cheese and regret.”   He offered 350. Straight.   She smiled. “I like honest nerds.”   She took the gold and left before he could change his mind.   ---   Day Six: Gold and Gratitude   With the coins stashed and Mimicat satisfied (for the moment), Scree finally relaxed.   She spent the day in the gardens near the outer wall, talking to trees, feeding the koi, and watching clouds drift over the distant Nipamore Hills.   She didn’t like how they looked.   Too still.   Too old.   That night, a drunk halfling sang half the Backwards Delvers’ ballad while leaning off a balcony.   “So raise your glass and honor her, Who fell, yet did not sever…”   Scree tilted her head and let the music finish.   ---   Day Seven: Cracks Beneath the Calm   On the final day, Scree walked the market without intention, just letting her feet wander. The staff was gone, her purse was heavier, but the earth beneath Isondale didn’t feel right.   She stepped off the path into a copse of city-grown trees and pressed her fingers to the bark.   The roots were tense. The soil whispered wrong things.   A predator was stirring.   She opened her eyes, scooped Mimicat into her arms, and gave a single nod.   She’d traded a snake for silver.   Soon, she’d need both.