“It’s so cute!” says an excited caster, poking the wiggling slime that is sitting down on the counter again. The group around them all lets out a delighted squeal, as the little slime starts to wobble up and down, its goofy smile and large eyes shaking around.

Shamrock lifts a hand, giving them a thumbs-up. Apparently, he has been practicing, as this gesture seems to come to him naturally now. A few of them fall back over-dramatically, having to be caught by their eye-rolling party-members, standing just behind them.

Fresh sighs, standing between the empty shelves and restocking the glass-wands. Nobody has ever swooned when she gave them a thumbs up. They had sold quite a few wands already, first thing in the day, so the shelf needs to be refilled already.

“He’s so mysterious and strong!” says an excited voice from the other aisle. “And he has such a soft side! Look at that little slime he made!”

“But isn’t he… you know? Look at his armor,” says a hushed voice, sounding somewhat worried.

“Huuuh?” asks the first voice, lowering her tone. “He’s just a little lost!” she explains. “He’s probably traumatized by being ordered around by that crone who runs this store. I’d start believing in witches too.”

Fresh purses her lips, having a feeling that she knows who they’re talking about.

“Would you be saying that if he wasn’t giant and as strong as a minotaur?” asks her party-member in a skeptical tone.

“Huh?! What are you implying, you jerk?!”

Fresh blinks, looking around, listening to the woman’s detailed explanation of how she is convinced that she could convert Shamrock to a holy life, though her party-member seems highly questioning of both her claims and her motivations. The woman is convinced however, that Shamrock is simply a lost soul in need of guidance and that she is the right one to offer it.

Stacking the last wand back in the shelf, Fresh heads back out and away, before they come around the bend and run into her. She walks past the still entirely full sheep-shelf, standing for a second to adjust one of the sheep, patting its head while she turns it an inch to the side, to have a better view of the store from its high perch. At least the sheep is smiling at her.

“Hey, goo-brain,” says Jubilee from behind the counter.

“Huh?” asks Fresh, turning over to face them somewhat listlessly.

“Run into town and go buy some stuff if you have nothing better to do, will you?” asks Jubilee, sliding a piece of paper across the counter. “Here, I made a list.”

“Mm!” nods Fresh, happy about having something else to do, other than to sit in here and listen to herself be insulted, just because people are jealous that she gets to be friends with Shamrock. She grabs the list, looking over the fairly standard collection of items. “Eggs? Fabric?” She reads, those are just the first two items. There are a lot of things on the list, but there is nothing here that is important or that they don’t already have a little of at home still. “We have all of this stuff already, Jubilee,” remarks Fresh quizzically.

“Just go and get it, okay?” asks Jubilee, tapping their fingers against the counter.

Fresh shrugs and nods. “Okay!” she says, heading behind the counter and then upstairs to get her bag and some money. Grabbing a bottle of herbal-tea from the cold shelf on her way out, Fresh steps out of the shop and sighs a long sigh of relief at the very moment that she exits their home. Somehow, there has been a pressure building inside of the store all morning, apparently one that only she feels and by leaving, it all seems to fall off of her shoulders, all at once.

Opening her bottle of tea, she takes a long drink out of it, letting out a second relieved breath after. Screwing it tightly back shut, she puts the bottle into her bag and starts walking down the tunnel, out towards the plaza. But suddenly, Fresh stops, spontaneously deciding to take the longer way today, simply for the sake of it. Turning around again, Fresh goes the other way down the tunnel, bending off to the right and stopping outside of the clockwork shop that she had looked at together with Basil that one time.

There are a lot of cute things here, all of them powered by the magical-crystals. Wooden toys that march from side to side across the floor of the show-window. Ornate clocks hang on the wall, ticking loudly as their decorative pendulums swing left and right. Fresh can’t help but smile, as she sees a little bird pop out of the top of one, as the new hour strikes.

The little chicken pops in and out of the hole and each time it appears, there is a pushing of air through a soft whistle that goes

‘Ooh Ooooh~’

‘Ooh Ooooh~’

“Ooh Ooooh~” mutters Fresh to herself, her face pressed against the glass, as she stares at the chicken. Seeing it makes her feel better somehow. “Thanks chicken,” she nods to the chicken. The chicken retreats back into its hole and doesn’t return. Her eyes continue wandering, as she stares at everything else inside of the store. She watches as the shopkeeper inside, behind their counter, is busy tinkering with something, while their assistant is running around, corralling a bunch of excited children and fairies who can hardly contain their joy at the many wondrous creations.

She’s jealous again. Why can’t their store be like this? Maybe she needs to make nicer things…? Yeah, that’s it! She hasn’t been making nice enough things. Wares like these things here. That’s why people are being so rude lately. She isn’t adding any value to their lives. That has to be it. After all, what has she made? Some boots. A mattress. A sheep. Some drinks. Some junk food. It’s no wonder people are mean to her, thinks Fresh. But things like this? Wondrous things? Things that make your eyes sparkle and your heart skip just a single beat? She has made nothing like that. She hasn’t made anything that could offer such strong feelings of joy, has she?

Fresh pulls back from the window, nodding to the reflection with clenched, determined fists that she sees looking back her way. Hurrying, she leaves the window and paces down the tunnel, away from the dungeon, determined to find something to light that spark in her eye, determined to find some idea, some material, something that will light the spark in their hearts. So that they’ll like her too. She isn’t going to come back until she does. Even if she has to stay outside all day and all night holding a bunch of eggs and fabric.

Hurrying to the plaza outside, Fresh starts working her way through the list and with every stop that she makes, she takes an extra long time to look at every little thing that each vendor has. She doesn’t just look at the fabric that she needs for Jubilee, she looks at every piece of fabric that they have on display. When she gets the eggs, she doesn’t just look at the normal chicken’s eggs, she looks at the eggs from other birds, at the monster eggs. One of the vendors even has an anqa egg, which they claim is ready to hatch any day now, only Fifteen-thousand Obols.

Fresh has to try very hard to restrain herself there, walking away from the vendor while carefully setting the small wooden-box of straw-packed chicken eggs into her bag.

The next stop on her list. Milk.

She stands in front of the vendor, looking around at the many bottles of mostly, but not all, white liquids. Some of them really do have an exotic off-color. Apparently, for particularly brave souls, there is even minotaur’s milk. One-hundred Obols per bottle. Peering around, Fresh looks at the many odd types, before her eyes reach the vendor who is standing there, scribbling onto a piece of paper.

“Excuse me,” says Fresh. He lifts his head towards her. “Do you have dragon’s milk?” she asks curiously.

The man stares at her for a moment as if sizing her up. “Ice dragon or mountain dragon?” he asks a second later.

“It’s real?!” shouts Fresh, her hands planting themselves onto the counter as she leans in forward.

Yes. Apparently, it is real. The man pulls out a heavy trunk from beneath the counter and lifts up two bottles, standing well back so that nobody could snatch them out his grasp as he, in detail, explains the logistics of how it is extracted and processed, much to Fresh’s delight, as she envisions a man with a straw-hat, sitting with a wooden pail next to a dragon in a hay-covered stall and milking it. In her mind at least, the dragon moos.

Which is apparently exactly how it is made, minus the mooing. According to him, there is actually a large farm even further west of the mountain, where an oddball shaman, who became a monster-farmer, does exactly that.

“Five-hundred Obols for the small bottle,” he finishes.

“I’ll take it!” says Fresh without hesitation, slapping her coins readily onto the counter.

Proudly, she sets the little bottle of ice dragon’s milk into the side pocket of her bag as she walks away, not regretting a single thing about this purchase.

(Fresh) bought: [Dragon's Milk]{Ice}(High)

for

[{500} Obols]

With a crystal clear conscience and heart, Fresh continues on her personal adventure to find out what she could make to win everybody over. To prove to them that she is someone who they could all be friends with.