The next morning smelled like flour, sawdust, and quiet potential.
Selene Mira sat cross-legged in her shed, tightening the last strip of cloth over a crate shelf she was reworking. Clarence snoozed in the corner atop the purple apple Gabby had given them yesterday.
Still no ghost chairs. A win in her book.
She glanced out toward the alley. Her hand-painted sign fluttered in the soft breeze:
"Need help fixing your space? I barter."
(No magic. No shouting. Rats welcome.)
It had been a full day since she'd patched Gabby's potion shop. The woman hadn't stormed back, so either things were holding up… or she was still trying to convince her chairs not to unionize.
Selene exhaled. No big changes. No sudden fame. And honestly, that was fine.
Mostly.
She was halfway through trying to build a hanging rack from bottle caps and twine when a shadow passed across the doorway.
A soft, theatrical cough followed.
"Ahem."
Selene looked up to see a man in a flowing blue tunic and wildly curly hair, holding a worn stool in one hand and a lute in the other. His eyes twinkled like he was seconds away from singing about your soul and charging you for the verse.
"…Let me guess," Selene said dryly, "Gabby sent you."
He smiled as though he'd just walked onto a stage. "Indeed! She said you 'exorcised the nonsense' out of her chairs. I've got a stool with too much personality. I figured you were my girl."
Clarence poked his head out from under a rag.
Selene raised an eyebrow. "Do all your furniture have identities?"
"Only the ones that have dropped me mid-performance."
His name was Roran, and he was—according to him—a bard, a dramatist, and part-time acoustic philosopher.
His stool was, in fact, terrible.
One leg was shorter than the rest. The seat had warped from rain. And there was a mysterious stain that looked like it came from either wine or regret.
Selene studied it while Roran talked about a future dream stage made of musical wood and emotional resonance. She nodded along, only catching every third word.
"You see," he explained passionately, "a good chair doesn't just support the body. It supports the mood. Mine betrayed me during a tragic verse about seaweed and longing."
Selene looked up. "You wrote a love ballad about seaweed?"
He placed a hand on his heart. "Unrequited. Briny. Beautiful."
Clarence sneezed.
An hour later, the stool was fixed—rebuilt slightly, legs sanded and balanced with wedges made from repurposed crate corners. She even added soft padding to the seat from a spare piece of blanket and, just because he wouldn't stop humming, carved a tiny musical note beneath the seat.
Roran sat on it and bounced gently. "By the stars! My backside is… inspired!"
"Please don't say that again."
He grinned, pulled out a biscuit wrapped in cloth, and handed it over.
"I'm broke, but I trade in stories and snacks. That's for you. And him." He nodded at Clarence, who immediately sniffed the offering like a professional food critic.
Ding! [Client Satisfaction: High – +3% Creative Sector Reputation Boost]
[Trait Unlocked: Artisan Whisperer – You attract eccentric minds and questionable commissions.]
That evening, Selene sat with her back against the shed wall, splitting the biscuit in half with Clarence.
No guild badge. No gold.
Just a semi-functional stool, a satisfied poet, and one less piece of furniture trying to commit murder.
She looked at her hand-painted sign again and whispered, "Two barters. And no explosions. Maybe I really can live like this."
Clarence yawned.
She smiled faintly. "What? You thought I'd blow it?"
He blinked.
She blinked back.
"…Don't look smug. You're still technically unemployed."
Progress Update: Guild Goal — 14%
Street Recognition: 2.7% in Artisan Circle