OOC - Author's Notes:
Status: Complete - This compilation contains 6 entries (stories).
These stories form a multi-part chronicle, which can be found here.
Stories in this post include (click to jump directly to them, or scroll below):
- “Butterbur & the Beer Crisis”
- “The Nuisance from Nowhere”
- “Words in the Market Wind”
- “The Turn of the Trade”
- “A Little Bait Never Hurt”
- “The Doors Stay Shut”
Author’s Note: This piece was shaped with a little help from AI. It provided assistance on things like the structuring, some names, shortening some verbose language/ideas as I'd written, and gave me the odd turn of phrase here and there. The heart and shape of the story are my own, but I realise it is important to be transparent about my use of AI support in producing it ultimately.
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Sixteenth – “Butterbur & the Beer Crisis”
Today I had the rare pleasure (and brief terror) of doin’ business with Barliman Butterbur himself, the great innkeep of the Pony, whose memory’s as patchy as a moth-eaten cloak, but whose bark is only slightly worse than his bookkeeping.
It began with me deliverin’ a crate of “decorative tavern pins”, repurposed cufflinks really, to a fellow who turned out to be one of Barliman’s servers. He seemed taken with ‘em. Said they’d be perfect to help the staff look more “official.”
Official! That’s a word I like.
So I wrote up a little invoice (with some creative bulk discountin’), and brought it to the front desk of the Pony meself. Butterbur read it, scratched his head, and promptly claimed he’d never ordered any such thing and had no memory of speakin’ to a “Vratni Coppe... Copperhelm? Copperpot?”
To which I replied: “Copperhand, good sir. Honest seller, trusted name, and vendor of fine ornamental staff embellishments!”
He blinked. I could see the gears turnin’, slow as syrup.
Then fate tossed me a coin: the barkeep came burstin’ in to say one of the ale casks was jammed and half the taps wouldn’t work. Barliman groaned, muttered somethin’ about cursed cellars and absent-minded lads, and asked if I knew anyone who could do a quick fix.
Now... I’m no handiman. But I do carry a small mallet, a length of twine, and a pocketful of beeswax for “sealing spiritual drafts.” Fifteen minutes later, I had the tap flowin’ (albeit slightly crooked), the staff wearin’ their new “official pins,” and Barliman noddin’ as though it’d all been his idea.
He even offered me a hot meal, and said I might stop by regular-like if I ever had “useful stock” to peddle. Not an offer every street-trader is given, by any stretch!
All in all—a profitable visit, in more ways than one. And now I’ve got a foot in the Pony’s door. Might even see about designin’ custom tankard charms for ‘em. Engravings like “Drink like a Dwarf, Think like a Dwarf” has a nice ring to it.
Ludon says I’m pushin’ me luck. I told him: "Lad, luck’s just opportunity waitin’ for a louder voice."
—V. Copperhand, Beverage Repairman, Supplier to the Inn of Inns
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Seventeeth – “The Nuisance from Nowhere”
Spotted a new cart near the West Gate today... looked harmless enough from a distance. Bit of canvas, crooked sign, and a scruffy pony with a lazy eye. But up close? Trouble. Trouble with a grin and a sales pitch even I had to admire.
Name’s Kellop. Claims to be from “south of Archet,” though I’d bet a shaved beard he’s never lived further than a hedge away from Bree. Cart’s stacked with knickknacks—bone charms, “weather predictors” (bits of moss), enchanted bark, and somethin’ he swears is a Dwarven whistlin’ fork. A whistlin’ fork!
I watched him charm a whole crowd with a story about a haunted pie tin he “rescued” from Fornost. Sold it for six silver and a bottle of cider. Six! I’ve seen pies worth less.
Ludon’s eyes lit up. “He’s like you,” he said. I almost choked on me pipe.
No. He’s not like me. He’s... cheap. Slick. Showy. Peddlin’ wild tales with no care for craftsmanship—or for Bree’s good name, mind you. He’s already undercut me on lucky feathers, and I’m fairly sure he lifted one of my own rocks and resold it as a “sacred gnome egg.” Outrageous.
And the worst of it? Folk are buyin’. Buyin’! Which means Vratni Copperhand, Merchant of the Road, must now compete.
So I’ve gone into high gear. New signage. Bundle offers. A “mystery purchase discount.” And yes—I’ve dusted off the Trusted Seller Scheme pitch. Been talkin’ it up again to anyone who’ll listen. “Not just anyone can sell ye gnome eggs, friend. But a trusted seller? That’s a name ye can stake yer coin on.”
The Guild’s still draggin’ their feet. But Kellop? He’s a walkin’ argument for reform. If this keeps up, I’ll be forced to draw up a Code of Merchant Conduct.
Ludon asked what that is. I told him:
“It’s the thing we write so Kellop can’t do what I do without fillin’ out a form first.”
The game’s on now. Bree’s only big enough for one chief scoundrel. And I’ve got the better beard.
—V. Copperhand, Pillar of Honest Trade, Founder of the Whistlin’ Fork Boycott
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Eighteenth – “Words in the Market Wind”
It happened at midday, just past the bell, near the herb stall where old Marta sells withered garlic. I’d set up my cart along the side, tastefully arranged, all angles just right, when I felt eyes on me. Not the usual wide-eyed “what is that” gaze, but a look from someone who already knows what the trick is… and is just waitin’ to see how you do it.
Kellop.
There he was. Leanin’ on a crate of his own wares, arms folded, that grin fixed on his face like it was hammered there by a lazy blacksmith. His hat was tilted just so, and he had the gall—the gall!—to whistle a little tune. It was the melody I use when pitchin’ beard comb bundles. The cheek.
He sauntered over. Said nothing at first. Just looked over my table, picked up a polished spoon, flipped it, and said:
“Copperhand, is it? Heard you were a legend. Thought you’d be taller.”
I smiled, like a hammer thinkin’ about nails.
“Kellop, isn’t it? I heard you once sold a rusty hinge as a ‘Dwarven musical instrument.’ Thought you’d have moved on to bigger things by now.”
What followed was a sort of... merchant’s duel. No threats. No shouting. Just pleasant tones and carefully chosen words dipped in vinegar.
He said the market was “big enough for both of us.”
I said Bree wasn’t big enough for two merchants sellin’ dreams on discount.
He asked about my badge. I told him it was pending certification.
He asked by whom. I said, “Time will tell—and the Guild, if they’ve any sense.”
Then he leaned close and muttered, quiet like:
“Watch your step, Copperhand. Folk here have long memories, and short patience for competition.”
I leaned back and grinned:
“Aye. Which is why I’ll make sure they remember me first.”
He left with a wink and a half-bow, and I spent the rest of the afternoon smilin’ through gritted teeth and rearrangin’ my rock display twice.
Ludon asked if I was angry. I said no.
I’m motivated.
Tomorrow, we go big. “Three for two” on mystery relics. A lucky cart raffle. And maybe, just maybe, a formal complaint to the Guild about unauthorised whistlin’ forks.
The game’s afoot. And this Dwarf’s diggin’ in.
—V. Copperhand, Unshaken, Unshaven, Unmatched
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Nineteeth – “The Turn of the Trade”
Been a rough string of days. Nothin’ catastrophic, just... quiet. Too quiet.
Foot traffic around my usual spot dried up. Folk gave polite nods but passed me by... some said they’d “already bought one,” others mumbled somethin’ about “a better deal.” I thought it was just market drift. Happens. Bree folk are fickle, like wet dogs; friendly one moment, snappin’ the next.
Then it happened again. And again. Three days runnin’. Not one big-ticket sale. I even threw in a bonus feather with the runed brooches. Nothin’.
Ludon noticed it first. “They’re goin’ to him,” he said. “To Kellop.” And sure enough, his stall was busy. Too busy. His cart was freshly painted, his wares tidier, his stories somehow more refined.
Turns out he’s been followin’ me sales pitches. Watchin’ the customers I turn away. I sell a “blessed toothpick,” he sells a “dental relic of ancient Dale.” I pitch mystery bundles—he starts offerin’ mystery bundles with snacks. Snacks!
So I changed tact.
Put together a one-day-only offer: a matched bundle of “heroic heirlooms,” complete with signed certificate of provenance (written by Ludon in his best pretend-runic). We set up early, right by the North Road, just where the merchants come through from Trestlebridge. Got a crowd. Got a buyer—a caravan master, no less. Bought the whole set. Said he’d use them as “talk pieces” in his inn. Paid full price and tipped Ludon a copper for his bow.
It was a win. A big one. I even saw Kellop pass by, smilin’ tight-lipped.
Thought I’d done it. Thought I’d turned the tide.
Then came the shouting.
Turns out Kellop, feelin’ the sting, had told the Watch that someone…“a young lad workin’ for a known peddler”… had been runnin’ unauthorised street games the day before. Ludon, who had been tryin’ to draw attention by offerin’ a guessing game with wrapped bundles, got grabbed by the guards while fetchin’ bread.
I found him in the square, shaken, with one of the Watch lecturin’ him about permits and “dangerous distraction of the peace.” Took fast talk and a couple trinkets I hadn’t planned to part with to smooth things over.
Ludon said he was fine. But I saw it in his eyes. He wasn’t scared of the Watch. He was ashamed.
And I’m furious.
Kellop’s played dirty before... but this? This was aimed to hurt. Not my purse. My lad.
So it’s war now. Not just for coin. Not just for pride.
For Ludon.
—V. Copperhand, Father o’ the Scheme, Defender of the Apprentice
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twentieth – “A Little Bait Never Hurt”
Right then.
If Kellop wants to play dirty, he’ll find this Dwarf knows all the shades of dust. I may be a peddler, but I ain’t some cabbage-cart rookie flingin’ tales with no backbone. No, he’s woken the beard.
So. Traps.
Not the spring-loaded, pointy sort.... merchant traps. The kind where you don’t see the snare until your coin’s missin’ and your customer’s walkin’ away happier than you.
Step one was the decoy bundle. Wrapped a crate with extra fuss, stamped it “Exclusively Endorsed by Greenway Traders” (entirely unofficial), and had Ludon take it right past Kellop’s stall. Didn’t stop. Just wandered, askin’ if anyone had seen “the new merchant doin’ the special offers.” Word spread faster than pipe-smoke. Within an hour I had curious folk driftin’ over to me askin’ what the fuss was.
I sold ‘em nothing new. Same baubles. Same charms. But they thought it was a rare run.... and that’s all that matters.
Step two: reverse bargainin’. I marked up the price of my “elven sowing needles” to triple, then offered them at a "steep discount for clever buyers." One woman said she’d never seen such generosity. I told her the pins whisper to those with discernin’ ears. She bought two.
Kellop tried to match the trick. Didn’t work. See, he sells fast, but he don’t listen. Folk here remember who smiles when they ain’t buyin’.
But the best? That’s still comin’.
I’ve been stashin’ a few extra trinkets. Real oddities: a belt buckle carved with a strange rune, a cracked bottle with Elvish letters I can’t read, and a spoon that definitely hums (albeit only near the forge). I'm puttin’ them all in a one-day “Mystery Heritage Auction.” Entry by invite only. Word’s already spreadin’ among the curious and the collectors.
And Kellop? He’ll want in. But he won’t get an invite.
Let’s see how he likes bein’ on the outside of the crowd.
Ludon’s back to his old self. Got him practisin’ a new pitch:
“The rarest stories aren’t told, they’re traded.”
That one’s got legs.
—V. Copperhand, Maker of Mayhem, Layer of Legal-ish Lures
Ledger of Honest Dealings & Very Real Profit Projections
Volume II – Bree Edition
Entry the Twenty-First – “The Doors Stay Shut”
Today was the auction. Or as I titled it on the flyers (hand-delivered, not posted… exclusivity, you see):
“A One-Day Curated Gathering of Historical Curiosities & Cultural Wonders — By Invite Only.”
Printed in fancy script. Looked almost real.
Held it in the back courtyard behind The Pony, just off the kitchens, not technically legal, but not illegal enough to stop me. Barliman didn’t say no. In fact, he grunted, which I took as approval. He’d have the Watch onto me right enough if it caused any issue for his customers.
The guests trickled in. A curious scholar from Buckland. A caravan master from Staddle. Even an off-duty Watchman who collects old belt buckles. All clutchin’ their little parchment invites, foldin’ their arms like nobles. Ludon was in his element, handin’ out “catalogues” (handwritten, one page, full of nonsense).
I stood behind the table like a prince of junk. On offer:
– A “pre-Third Age” spoon
– A rune-etched goblet with “definitely dwarvish” markings (probably just spilled ale)
– And the crown jewel: a half-melted pendant said to be “touched by Elven moonlight” (was left on a forge too long, but it shimmers, so…).
The bidding was soft at first, Bree-folk don’t like to go first. But then someone nudged the Watchman, who bid two silver on the spoon, and suddenly it was on. Whispered bets, nods, dramatic pauses. Even I nearly believed the goods were worth it.
And then… he arrived.
Kellop.
Late, of course. Without an invite. Came stridin’ in with that sideways grin and a coin pouch he shook loud enough to wake the kitchen rats. Said he was “hopin’ to browse the collection.”
I smiled. Bowed. Told him:
“Oh, I’m sorry, friend. This is a closed affair. No outside traders. Conflict o’ interest, you understand.”
His face twitched.
Said I was making enemies. I told him I was making history. Then Ludon offered him a "Complimentary Commemorative Pebble" for his trouble; which Kellop did take, mind you.
He stormed off. Guests clapped. I bowed again.
Sales weren’t bad either. Covered the cost of ink and parchment and made enough to refill our bellies for a few days.
But the best part? The looks on the buyers’ faces. Pride. Wonder. Curiosity.
For a moment, I wasn’t a peddler. I was a curator.
Let Kellop keep the alley crowd. I’ll take the ones that want the story.
—V. Copperhand, Auctioneer of Antiquity, Architect of Access
