The Merchant King and the Price of Memory

There are few names I dislike etching into ink. Caldrin Goldtooth is one of them.

We both began as wandering merchants, scraping coin in markets that barely tolerated us. I’ve heard whispers of his childhood; misplaced, dirt-poor, starved not just of food but of belonging. That story, oddly enough, sounds familiar. The difference is... where I found comfort in shared stories, he found power in silence. I opened my door to strangers. He closed his fist.

Caldrin wasn’t always the Lootmaster General. Once, he was just a man with a stall, a voice, and a need to be heard. And in this world, when no one listens, the loudest turn cruel. He bought stall after stall. Turned neighbors into tenants. Coin into contracts. Paperwork into chains. Today, he commands the entire Merchant’s Ward, not with blade or banner, but with taxation, legislation, and erasure.

His henchmen don’t wear armor. They carry ledgers. Their weapons are numbers written in ink that stains like blood. Say the wrong thing, sell the wrong way, and you’re scrubbed clean from the city. No name. No records. No legacy.

That’s what he fears most; legacy not bought, but earned. Story without cost. Lore without license.

He’s tried, of course, to buy my shop. Dozens of times. Once offered to tax me at a “friendly” 80% rate. I declined. Politely. Then again, with several unkind words and a kettle thrown in his general direction.

You see, I barter in something he cannot commodify: lore. A traveler trades me a dagger for a tale. A cloak for a memory. A cursed coin for the legend it carries. Some bring gifts just to sit and speak. I sell their stories on in the form of trinkets, cloaks, and charms. And still, he taxes me, but he never owns me.

Relics are what he despises most. Because relics remember. They carry echoes too loud to silence, too stubborn to forget. That is why I keep them locked away, warded behind sigils and sealed glass, hidden deep in my vault. Not for fear of theft, but to protect their truth from being rewritten.

You may wonder why I share this. Why I speak his name at all. Because he represents more than himself. Caldrin Goldtooth is what happens when we trade wonder for wealth. When we stop asking questions. When we forget the stories that shaped us. So next time you visit, don’t just browse the shelves. Ask me what I remember. Ask me what the world forgot. And I’ll show you.

— Come for the loot, stay for the lore.