Hair Bauble

Travelling salesdragons are as common as wildflowers in the fields this far south of The Great Expanse, far from the establishment of large cities and organised markets and storefront that they held within the expanses of walled streets and guarded residences. 

Here, where roads and streets had been ignored for the same dirt pathways that had been carved out when the first of those here had settled, there was little need for money, little use in anything of those kinds. Most made their existences through trade and favour, work for work, good for good, and there was always more than enough to go around when the winters set in and fall had rotted all growing things from their homes within the tilted dirt. 

There was little of expense, little of luxury other than what those living here had inherited or returned with on one of the infrequent trips out of the small community’s existence. 

But they knew travelling sellers, they had always been happy to welcome them into their hearts and homes for the brief, fleeting time they visited. The wonders and foreign luxuries they brought with them to show from their travellers in an effort to tempt coin and whatever odd item had caught their eye during that particular visit were a breath of fresh air to a simple villager’s existence. 

Your’s was no different and the wagon that had rolled into what might have been called the village’s central point was no less tempting to your eyes that had only known rolling fields and gratifying farmwork. It was full of things you could never even imagine to begin putting names to, that jingled and clanged together as the wagon rumbled into the village centre. 

The Shooter that maned that wagon, salesperson and trader in kind, was no less exotic and mystifying to you who had only known the simple, kind-hearted dragons of your home, dragons that had never had need to lie or trick or other such concepts that were nothing but foreign to you. 

You had thought you would only watch from a distance, having little to offer and needing nothing of the extravagances that were being offered.

But the Shooter had beckoned you over with welcoming hands, a wide and, seemingly at the time, genuine smile on his face. 

His eyes were focused intently on you as you approached the wagon, a bright orange-yellow colour made brighter by the dark fur that surrounded them like a mask. His ears were sloped downwards, making him appear much more approachable than those Shooter’s whose ears were perked upright in an attempt to increase their size. 

This one was much more approachable as a result. 

“Good morning!” His voice was light and cheery, something nice to the ears. “It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? It certainly does need to be savoured, only so many pleasant ones left before winter truly sets in! I just happened to notice that hair-pin of yours, is it old? A family thing? Because it certainly doesn’t suit you very well and I’m sure I have something much, much more fitting for you in here!”

The words are quick and they nearly overwhelm you with the speed of their delivery and just how little you can catch of them but the result is the same overall. 

Your paw flies to the pin holding your hair in place, a gift from a family member, you explain with a quiet, hesitance, brought back from when they’d ventured out to one of the big cities. 

“Well I definitely have something much more suited in here, and prettier by far to be frank, give me a moment to locate it for you!”

Then the Shooter disappears into his wagon and you have a second, just one fleeting moment to think and consider, before he reappears with something bright and shiny in his claws. 

“What do you think?” You don’t hear the curl of satisfaction in his voice from knowing he’s already caught you in his con. 

You don’t notice anything until that night when you take the pin the Shooter has so graciously replaced your own one with out of your hair and feel the telltale texture of plastic in your paw.