Down by the water’s edge, a seagull cries out, flaps its wings, and flies out to sea. It had been sitting on a statue, a young man chiseled from flawless marble. The detail is so exquisite that the average viewer can almost feel the animosity, which radiates from the low eyebrows and wide, hate-filled eyes. Stone lips are parted back in a grimace, revealing two rows of polished marble teeth. He is positioned outstretched in mid-lunge, a real rapier gripped in his adamantine grasp. Actually, the statue is clothed in entirely real garments, sea-worn trousers, salt-stiff shirt and an equally rigid leather coat. Oddly, the coat is decorated with foreign gold and silver coins, sewn to the coat through the holes in their centers. Their worth – The coins, not the holes; It’s been a long time since realm economics were based on the hole standard – could keep a man in fine living for months.

The statue has no base, but its feet have been tightly lashed to a simple raft, which is what it floated onto shore by. Also on the raft is a long, flat trunk, latched but unlocked, which is nailed to the raft. A sensitive ear can detect, over the sound of the breeze and the ocean, scratching inside the trunk.

George Eaves was walking the shore that day, his head down, his day of fishing a failure. The young boy had caught nothing. He had thought to reel in a big beauty on at least four separate occasions, but each time each fish had escaped his hook and line. George was practically learning to fish (his dad had shown him how to on a previous trip), but he was finding it hard; difficult to let the fish go with its flow and wind it back in when it was labouring. He always ended up getting bored and trying to bring the fish in too quickly. George was impatient when it came to fishing, and that was not a good trait. Coin would be good though, he thought, for him and his family. The restaurants paid a nice price for each piece of plaice.

He would have to try harder next time.

Something caught his eye then as he looked to the sea. What was that?? The young boy, his rod slung over his shoulder, leaped slowly down the beach to the water's edge. It was a raft with a queer man stood on it. He had lunged out with a sword, but was rooted to the spot. The man glittered a bit in the light. What was this?

Coming closer in his cautious bewilderment, the boy realised the form wasn't moving at all. His eyes narrowed. The face wasn't real. His eyes moving down, he found the coat festooned with coins: gold and silver. His eyes widened.

But the boy's eye was drawn suddenly to a box on the raft. He was sure he heard a scratching noise from within. Listening closely, straining, he heard it again. What was inside there? George Eaves was not the curious or adventurous type of young boy; instead he was rather guarded and timid. George half expected the strange statue to jump into life at him, so he ventured no closer for now. In fact, he took a few steps back, to digest this enigma.

A day's walk from George's village stands a large harbor, unusually empty but for a few recently arrived merchants, lashing their goods to carts and hurriedly driving them up the road, towards the marketplace. They grumble about late shipments and bad weather, the causes for their tardiness to the port town of Judge Bay's "Quinquennial Better Bazaar". This week, merchants like them will set up shop in an eighth-of-a-mile radius of the statue of "The Judge", whose name is lost to rust, which stands in the center of Court Circus. The Quinquennial is five times as large as the Annual Better Bazaar and one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five times as exotic, flavorful, sparkly, musical and fun as the Judge Bay Morning Market, which has won awards for being picturesque.

The wine in Judge Bay is not as good as the wine from George’s town of Caerton, but their shoes are renowned. This is the reason the Bazaar is held here, instead of a larger city; merchants – who do a lot of walking – love their shoes. Also, they do good haircuts. Anorper’s Barbershop is best, but he’s a bit paranoid, so most folk who never really got on his good side go to the other side of town, to Agor’s Grooming and Leeching. He’s not an artist like Anorper, but he’s still quite skilled. Don’t, however, make fun of his stutter. He has the razor in his hand, not you.

None of that matters, because you can get anything you want at the Bazaar. If locals want to do any business this week, they open a tent themselves.

(Note: The picture in the link is rather limited, so do not take the layout as fact, simply understand that the description of a bazaar is pertinent, and so is the design of the objects in the picture. Remember that it’s really round, with a statue in the center, and cobblestones. Also, that site is in no way related to Fantasyrole.org. It's just some random thing off the internet.)

A Bazaar Descrip.

The latch on the trunk jiggles. Obviously there is something in there, trying to get out! There is the sound of more scrabbling, then a *knock*. The lid jerks up, maybe half an inch, still held by the latch. Small red-furred claws flail over the edge, followed by a squirrely nose. Then, having secured its nails into the sea-softened wood, the creature slides its nose a few inches to the left, then the right, anxious for freedom.

Young George jumped when the trunk jingled. He even took a few steps back ready to leg it if something bad jumped out. It was clear that the latch prevented whatever lied within from escaping however.

Still, when the lid jumped up, George Eaves nearly shat himself. Blinking nervously, he found a small furry snout poking out. It seemed to be sniffing about—what was it? It looked a bit like a squirrel.

George took a few steps forward, his curiosity finally getting the better of him. “Who’s in there?” the boy asked nervously. He knew squirrels couldn’t talk, but hearing his own voice helped him relieve some tension.

Seeing George step up, and hearing his voice, the squirrel's eyes widen! Oho! Noting an undertone of fear, however, she (the squirrel) knows George will never come close enough to help. So she takes it all into her own hands. Er, claws... she drops back into the darkness of the trunk, with a noticeable clatter of unknown metallic things, squares herself, and launches towards the latch. The top bumps up again, but the unbroken latch halts it from rising far enough. Weak squirrel arms thrash in vain at the brass of the latch, sharp squirrel teeth snap uselessly at the metal, as she strains for freedom. In despair, the squirrel ceases movement, reaches out a paw, and flicks at the slide-hook at the top of the latch. After a warm-up try, it slides out of its loop, and the squirrel lifts the top of the box just another inch. Squirming through the space, she tumbles to the sand, where she lies spread-eagle, or rather, flying-squirrelesque, gulping little lungfulls of fresh sea air.

Said rodent is normal squirrel sized, and is a dark, foxy red. Like all squirrels, she has sharp teeth and sharp claws, but this one also has a sharp glint in her eye.

Upon recovering from her short breather, (Get it? Hahaha! No?) the squirrel turns about, takes one look at the swordsman statue, stands on her hind legs clutching her head, and tumbles over backwards, to lie prone on George’s foot.

George watched it all in a daze, he did. The little furry creature was quick, and it moved so fast that the boy stopped and stood transfixed, his jaw dropping. Dimly, George's brain registered that this was perhaps a rather rash and destructive creature, and maybe he should move back and away.

When all had come to pass though, it (indeed he reckoned it to be a red squirrel) came to fall on his foot. As he looked down and thought about it, perhaps the squirrel hadn't liked that big dark box.

"Poor little thing," he murmured, shouldering off his fishing rod and lowering down to examine the creature, being careful not to disturb it from his foot. One of his fingers came out and gently stroked its fur.

The squirrel perks up, and stares at George withwide, squirrely eyes. She has no idea what's going on, so she just climbs up his pant leg and slides into the pocket of his pants, where she curls up to sleep.

George felt the squirrel usher up his leg and nestle into what must have been one of his pockets. There were a couple of fishing flies in his pockets, with hooks. Young George never could quite manage his flies--the majority hung from his outer coat, but a few inexplicably found his pockets. They were unlikely to harm the creature unless it really disturbed them.

The boy didn't know what was happening to be honest, it all happened so quickly. There was a scrambling beneath his pants, and then it seemed to be over. George was afraid to go in there after the furry creature. He hoped it wouldn't hurt itself on the hooks.

He took another look at the raft and the statue upon it. He should really tell his dad about this. His curiosity finally getting the better of him however, he slid (being careful not to disturb the squirrel in his pocket) over to the raft and peeked in the trunk.

The trunk opens fully with little effort, but an obnoxious screech of newly rusted hinges. Inside is a bundle of clothing: a rolled up, tattered black tunic. Stuffed beside this is a pair of beige cut-off shorts with a crimson sash strung through the loops. Beneath these bundles are an ordinary – if slightly tarnished – steel cutlass and a black leather quiver full of arrows, with an attached strap for easily slinging it over one’s shoulder. Beside them are pieces of a longbow, snapped in half to fit within the chest, and an ornamental crest, the type one would wear about one’s neck.

All of this is slightly damp, but otherwise in good condition – excepting the tunic and the bow. In the pocket of the tunic is a small pouch containing a few gold coins and a sealed glass vial. Inside the vial is a piece of catnip planted in a thimbleful of dirt. The glass is slightly steamed, but the plant is still alive.

(The squirrel has discovered the hooks on the flies inside the pocket, and angrily stuck them through the cloth, tips out, so that she doesn’t have to worry about getting stabbed. It wouldn’t be in the boy’s best interest, however, to slap his thighs.)

Back at the market, merchants of all types peddle their wares.

“Oranges! Pears! Other exotic fruits the likes of which rarely are seen on the continent! Buy your children a pomegranate! Watch their faces light up when they discover the ‘rubies’ inside! Fresh as – “
“Finest silk from the east! Silk dresses, shirts, robes! Buy three robes, get them enchanted for warmth, free! Watch the caterpillars at – “
“Spend a few coins at the tent of the Sorcerer Rex! Two coppers for a simple sortilege, five gold for a grand divination! Have curses lifted, or dropped on the unwitting head of your enemy – “
“Feeling a bit under the weather? Worried about the little ones coming home with broken bones? Buy Madam Curry’s healing potions and face the hazards of daily life knowing there’s a little bottle in your pocket to save you from injury!”
“Gems from dragons’ hoards!”
“Exquisite hand-carved chairs of foreign design!”
“Spices!”
“Old Murdum’s Ale and spiced cider! Take it back wit’ yer on the boat, keep ye warm!”

After a time, Eaves, father to young George, decided that he needed some wood chopped. He looked around for his son, but failed to find him. In fact, the child was nowhere about the house!
“George!” the father called down the coast, “George Eaves, you return yer arse back to this ‘ere house an chop some wood!”
When no reply came, Eaves began to worry, as is the duty of fathers. Many years of practice, however, allowed him to put on a gruff countenance conveying to the child only a feeling of disappointment and huffishness. Eaves then called over the dogs, hooked them up to the sand-sleigh, and took off down the beach towards George’s fishing spot.
The dogs barked happily, as Eaves was something of a frail old man and easy to pull. Sand sprayed to either side of the smooth wooden contraption as it was slung down the beach.

George peeked in the chest and saw some interesting things, "oooh!"

But it wasn't really practical to go scrabbling about in there. The squirrel in his pocket didn't really bother him, but he knew he needed to get home, and out of his fishing gear. His father would 'cuff him round the ear if he was too late back. It was bad enough he hadn't caught anything. Maybe later he could sneak back down here without his father catching him.

The young boy closed the chest, scooped up his rod and started moving over the sands . . . although, wait! There, before him, was that all-too-familiar looking sled. It was his dad.

And he was coming directly toward him.

"George, boy!" His father's words fell from an open mouth as the sled pulled up to the scene. The old man's gaze traveled from the treasures spat up by the sea, to his boy, and back to the statue. Dropping the reigns, he walked closer.
"I don't know where these things came from, but lad! Help me get them onto the sled!” He begins to haul the items onto the sled, starting with the chest. The dogs, curious, sniff around. They seem particularly interested in George.
“Boy, quit playin’ with the dogs, an help me carry these things home! You’re in fer a treat, lad. I’m thinkin’ today we’ll go to the city, ta Judge Bay. You know, there’s lot’s to see an do at the big market there.”