Corny as the name might be, this 'Spells R Us' is just too quirky to ignore, and you know that if you don't at least go check it out your curiosity is going to eat at you all day. Thus decided, you gingerly push open the old wooden door, eliciting a gentle chime from a quaint brass bell mounted above as you step into the musty shop.
And musty it is. While the place looks to be meticulously well-kept, the low aromas of old books and dried herbs serve as stark counterpoint to the cold, chemical sterility of other retail establishments. Likewise, instead of the widely-spaced, high-ceilinged expanse of other stores, 'Spells R Us' was packed close to bursting with merchandise, and no two items looked to be exactly the same. Tall, heavy bookshelves lined the walls while tables of every height from ankle to shoulder displayed various and exotic wares. Instead of barcodes and sale stickers, each item—if it was marked at all, and not every item was—bore a large, hand lettered cardstock tag attached with a length of yellowed string.
"See anything you like?"
Spinning around, you find yourself face to face with an elderly individual every bit as eccentric as the store. Apart from his already unusual long, untamed beard and flowing silver hair, the man seems to be sporting a clean but obviously well-worn blue bathrobe. You'e not sure how to respond; he sounds like the proprietor, but he looks like a crazy homeless man.
"Um… Do you work here?" you ask.
"Of course I do, Elliot!"
"How do you—"
The man waves his hand dismissively.
"Feel free to browse," he says. "I'm right in the middle of a little project in the back, but I'll be right with you when I've finished. It shouldn't take me more than a couple of minutes."
With that, the unusual old man turned away and strode off between the shelves, eventually exiting through a narrow doorway marked 'Staff Only'.
"Well that was… weird," you mutter. Shaking your head, you sigh and turn your attention back to the merchandise. It really is an eclectic collection, and doesn't seem to be organized in any particular pattern. A hand-carved wooden figurine sits atop a pile of musty books, which in turn rest against a wire-frame bin full of flashy videogames. Elsewhere, other items are displayed just as haphazardly. A fine silver pen, a delicate vial of black powder and a gothic-looking choker all sit proudly on a single table, as if it was only natural that they be displayed together. On still another table, expensive-looking jewelry sits side-by side with an off-brand pack of gum; the effect is bewildering and overwhelming. As you ponder where to start, a devilish thought strikes you—with the doddering owner occupied in back—and no apparent security—it wouldn't be difficult to abscond with some of the merchandise…
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