The journey to the mountain had been long and demanding, a three-day trek that tested our endurance. At last, as we crested a ridge, the old man's house came into view-a sagging structure nestled at the base of a steep cliff, looking as if it were being swallowed by the mountain itself. Thorn, Vaka, Aric, and I approached slowly, exchanging uncertain glances.
Dust and an earthy scent of decay wafted from the crooked windows. The place looked abandoned, with piles of clutter surrounding the entrance-rusted tools, broken lanterns, and other forgotten objects stacked haphazardly. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and knocked on the door.
For a long moment, silence. Then, a creak, and the door cracked open just enough to reveal a single cloudy, suspicious eye.
"What d'ye want?" The voice was hoarse, as though unused to speaking.
"We're here to make a trade," Aric said, his voice steady. He nodded toward Vaka, who carefully raised the crimson eggs, their polished surfaces gleaming even in the dim light.
The old man's eye glinted with sudden interest. The door creaked wider, revealing him fully. Bent over in a creaky wheelchair, he was cloaked in layers of dusty robes, and his hair, long and white, hung in greasy strands over a face lined with deep, sharp wrinkles. His gaze was sharp, though, and fixed intently on the ruby eggs.
"Well, well... come in," he muttered, his voice dripping with suspicion. He wheeled back into the shadows, allowing us to follow him into the cramped space.
Inside, the smell hit me-musty, stale, layered with something almost metallic. Every surface was crowded with odd trinkets and mismatched piles of ancient objects. It was as if the room hadn't seen light or air in years, weighed down by the years of hoarded items that spilled from shelves and filled the corners.
The old man wheeled himself toward us, his eyes never leaving the eggs. "What makes ye think I'd want these?"
"They're rare," Aric replied calmly. "Priceless, even. They hold ancient magic."
The old man squinted at Aric, then let out a bitter laugh. "Aye, you've got a clever tongue. I know exactly what these are. Hand them here."
Vaka stepped forward and gently placed the eggs in the old man's hands. He held them close, a twisted smile spreading over his lips as he ran his fingers over the gleaming surfaces. Then, he looked up at us, his gaze calculating.
"You wanted somethin' in return?" he asked with a mocking tone.
"Yes," I replied firmly. "We've been told you have a book. We need it."
He raised a bushy eyebrow, giving me a long, skeptical look. "The book, eh?"
"Yes," I repeated, feeling the impatience rising. "We were told you had it."
After a pause, he let out a low, rattling chuckle, clearly relishing in our discomfort. "A book," he repeated, almost to himself. He turned away and wheeled over to a cluttered shelf, reaching with a gnarled hand for a small, crumbling piece of parchment. He turned back, holding it out just beyond my reach, as if testing my patience.
I stepped forward, taking the parchment delicately from his fingers. As soon as it was in my hand, I felt a faint pulse of magic, humming within the ancient text.
"Wait..." I examined the parchment, my brow furrowing. "This is only part of the book."
The old man let out a wheezy laugh, obviously enjoying my frustration. "Ye thought it'd be that easy, did ye? One trade for all of it?" He snorted, rolling his eyes. "That's a taste. You'll need to earn the rest."
Aric clenched his jaw, and I could feel Thorn and Vaka tense beside me. "Where's the rest?" Aric asked, his voice taut with impatience.
The old man looked up, feigning surprise. "Rest of what?"
"The rest of the book," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "We need all of it."
A crooked smile twisted his lips. "Oh, well, that's somethin' different entirely. If you want the whole thing, you'll have to go higher up the mountain."
I frowned, caught off guard. "Higher up the mountain?"
"Aye," he replied, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm not the only one holdin' this knowledge. There's more to be done if ye want it all. But ye better be prepared to work for it."
We exchanged wary glances, realizing that our task wasn't close to complete. This was no simple exchange. Whatever lay ahead would demand far more than we'd anticipated.
With a final, twisted grin, the old man wheeled himself back, cradling the eggs like precious jewels. He gave us a curt nod and muttered, "Good luck... ye'll need it."
With that, he turned away, leaving us standing in the dim light, the piece of parchment in hand, and an uneasy feeling in our chests. It seemed our journey was only beginning.
As we left the cluttered, creaky house of the old man on the lower mountain, the sense of accomplishment quickly gave way to frustration. We had a small part of the enchanted book, but his final words-"Go higher"-still lingered, as if our journey was far from over.
"What did he mean, 'higher up the mountain'?" I muttered as we set up camp.
Aric sighed, pulling his pack down. "We can't go back now. There's more up there, and if we want the complete book, we're going to have to climb."
The following day, we continued our climb, the air growing colder and thinner as we ascended. After hours of walking, we finally spotted another small, peculiar house perched on a ledge above us. From a distance, it looked eerily identical to the one we'd just left.
When we reached it, we found an elderly figure standing in the doorway, almost a mirror image of the old man we'd met the day before-down to his sunken eyes and thin, sharp gaze. But this one wore a long, worn-out dress in faded floral print, his cheeks powdered, and his lips tinted a bold red. He had kohl-lined eyes, giving him an oddly theatrical, almost unsettling look.
"Goodness, would you look at the state of you!" he scoffed, eyeing us from head to toe. "Manners seem lost on travelers these days. Wipe your feet-thoroughly-before coming in."
We exchanged uneasy glances, the resemblance to the previous man unnerving us, but we complied, wiping our boots as meticulously as we could manage before stepping inside.
A Grueling Cleanup
Inside, the house was spotless and pristine, an utter contrast to the cluttered chaos of the last place. Everything gleamed under the faint light-a dainty tea set on a polished table, porcelain figurines lining the shelves, and floral wallpaper covering the walls in neat, faded patterns. The room was almost stifling with the scent of lavender and something sharp, like polish.
The old man adjusted his shawl and perched on an elegant chair, his sharp gaze not leaving us. "Now then," he said, his voice a soft yet commanding drawl, "I'll need a few things taken care of before I can consider any trades."
Aric took a steadying breath. "What do you need us to do?"
A sly smile crept across his face as he surveyed the room. "Everything in here needs a good dusting. And mind you, not a single speck of dust should remain. I'll know if you miss even a spot."
Reluctantly, we spread out, each grabbing a rag and a duster. I reached up to the shelves, carefully dusting around the porcelain figurines while Thorn tackled the floorboards, scrubbing until they shone.
But every time we thought we'd completed a task, the old man would find something else to criticize.
"Dust under the table legs, not just around them!" he snapped at Vaka, who clenched his jaw in frustration but obeyed.
"Those curtains," he tutted, waving a hand in my direction. "Give them a proper shake; they look dreadful."
I stifled my sigh and complied, shaking out the curtains and watching the dust puff out in a cloud. My arms ached, my fingers cramping from gripping the rag, but he still wasn't satisfied.
When we finally thought we'd cleaned everything in sight, he clapped his hands. "The pots and pans need polishing, of course," he said, his voice as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And the silverware-I don't see a single utensil that doesn't need a shine."
Aric muttered under his breath as we moved to tackle the next wave of cleaning. My arms felt like they were made of lead, and every muscle protested with each movement, but the old man's unyielding gaze didn't let us slow down.
When we finally finished the pots and silverware, he looked them over with pursed lips. "Hmm. Could be better. Perhaps another scrub?"
Thorn shot me a glare, clearly at the end of his patience, but Aric gave him a cautionary shake of his head. "Let's just finish this," he whispered.
We scrubbed the silverware again, making sure each piece gleamed under the firelight. I felt exhaustion creeping over me, and my head pounded from the strain. Yet, as soon as we completed one task, he would find another-polishing the teacups, scrubbing the mantle, washing and drying each lace doily that lined his shelves.
By the time he'd finally stopped giving instructions, I felt completely drained. My hands were blistered from scrubbing, and I had to stifle a groan as I stood back up.
With an approving nod, he finally gestured for us to sit. "Now, I suppose you're wanting something in return?" he asked with a coy smile.
Aric, barely holding back his frustration, nodded, producing the parchment the first old man had given us. "We've come to collect the next part of this book."
The old man's eyes sparkled with interest as he took in the parchment, his face lighting up briefly with a greedy glint. Then he disappeared into a side room, the sound of drawers opening and closing echoing through the otherwise silent house. A moment later, he returned with a few more pages-barely thicker than the last stack.
Aric's face fell as he took the small bundle, flipping through it quickly. "This is still only a part of the book."
The old man's expression shifted to one of feigned innocence. "Did you think it would be that easy?"
Aric's jaw tightened, but he managed a respectful tone. "Where's the rest?"
The old man gave a casual shrug, a smile tugging at the corners of his red-tinted lips. "Oh, you'll find it higher up the mountain." He waved a hand dismissively. "My sibling up there might be able to help you. Quite a charming fellow, I might add."
Vaka crossed his arms, staring at the man with a barely concealed glare. "And what guarantees do we have that he won't make us scrub his floors too?"
The old man smirked, clearly savoring our frustration. "None at all," he said with a soft, infuriating laugh. "Best of luck!"
With that, he turned away, dismissing us as though we were no more than servants who had overstayed their welcome.