Merchant Crab

Balthazar approached the hooded stranger with cautious steps, never taking his eyes off the man standing motionless between the boulder and the gnarled tree.

“Good afternoon,” the crab said, forcing a polite smile. “The others mentioned you’re a merchant as well.”

The figure remained still for another heartbeat before a low, gravelly chuckle escaped from beneath the shadow of the cowl.

“Merchant?” the man repeated. “Nah, mate. Easy mistake to make, innit? Happens all the time.”

He slowly shook his head.

“I’m a trader.”

His voice rasped against every word, rough as weathered bark dragged across stone. It carried the strain of someone who had spent decades shouting over storms and swallowing dust, yet somehow retained a strangely cheerful tone that never quite reached the unsettling grin hidden beneath the hood.

Balthazar cocked an eyestalk.

“Aren’t those the same thing?”

Another amused chuckle. “Not even close.”

“They both involve buying and selling things,” said the crab.

“One does,” replied the man.

“And the other?”

“Trades.”

The crab stared blankly. “That… sounds exactly the same.”

The grin widened. “Does it?”

“It does,” said the baffled crustacean.

“Funny that,” said the baffling human.

Silence lingered for a moment as the crab felt himself getting annoyed by the man.

Balthazar looked the odd fellow up and down.

The long brown trench coat had clearly seen countless years on the road. Mud stained its frayed hem, while the raised cowl concealed nearly everything above the man's mouth. Worn black leather boots peeked from beneath the coat, their cracked surfaces telling stories of long journeys over unforgiving ground. Fingerless gloves covered his hands, exposing calloused fingertips that looked more accustomed to handling blades than ledgers.

A quick glance through his monocle’s lens told the crab nothing too surprising.

[Trader - Level 41]

“Well,” the crab eventually said, “my name is Balthazar.”

“Pleasure.”

“And yours?”

The trader let out another quiet laugh. “Names, ey? Curious little things.”

He leaned one shoulder lazily against the tree.

“Folks cling to ‘em like treasures. Give ‘em to babies before they’ve done anythin’ worth rememberin’. Put ‘em on signs. Write ‘em in books. Carve ‘em into gravestones.”

His grin never faltered.

“Lose a name and everyone panics. Find a new one and everyone asks questions.”

Balthazar blinked.

“Right…”

“But what’re names really for?”

The crab shrugged. “I imagine introducing yourself.”

“Exactly. There’s only one trader on Battershoal, innit?” the trader said while pointing lazily toward the camp behind them.

“I suppose? I only just got here.”

“So call me the Trader.”

“That isn't a name.”

“No, it ain’t,” the Trader agreed, a mildly unsettling grin under his hood.

“It sounds more like a title.”

“Could be. I like that.”

Balthazar exhaled sharply. “You're being intentionally difficult.”

The hood shifted ever so slightly.

“A little.”

Balthazar sighed.

“I had a feeling.”

“A good instinct to have.”

The crab wasn't sure whether he’d just been complimented or if the odd figure before him was just pulling on his legs. More so than usual on Mantell, Balthazar felt like everyone he had met on Battershoal so far had one extra loose screw compared to the normal amount from the locals and adventurers on the mainland.

It was at least a little concerning when the talking crab wearing a backpack was the sanest one around.

“So…” he continued, choosing his next words carefully. “If you’re a trader…”

“I am,” the chipper fellow confirmed.

“You seem rather… light on things to trade.”

That earned the first genuine laugh, the Trader’s shoulders bouncing beneath the coat as he chuckled loudly.

“I like you already.”

“Uhh… Thank you?”

The Trader’s gaze drifted toward the large backpack strapped to Balthazar’s shell.

“That’s a lovely bag you've got there, mate.”

Balthazar instinctively tightened his grip on the shoulder straps.

“Thank you.”

“Backpack o’ Holdin’?”

“Something along those lines.”

“A beauty.”

The Trader patted the side of his own coat.

“Personally…” He slowly pulled one side of the trench coat open. “I’ve always preferred a Coat o’ Holdin’.”

Balthazar’s eyestalks rose.

The inside of the coat looked nothing like cloth.

Every bit of its inner side had been transformed into a carefully organized display of hooks, loops, and stitched leather pockets. Glass bottles filled with liquids of every imaginable color hung beside rows of throwing knives polished to mirror shines. A curved scimitar rested in hidden straps near one side, while compact crossbows, bundles of bolts, darts, lockpicks, coils of wire, and curious metal instruments occupied neatly arranged compartments.

One particularly odd object caught the crab’s attention.

It consisted of a polished wooden stock attached to a perfectly straight length of dark metal unlike anything he had seen before. There was no bowstring, no blade, nor any obvious place where magic crystals might fit. A handful of short brass cylinders rested in loops beside it, seemingly belonging to the mysterious contraption.

The crab had no idea what it was supposed to be, but it was certainly the strangest crossbow the merchant had ever seen.

The coat closed again.

Balthazar let out a low whistle. “I have to admit, that’s impressive.”

“Told ya,” the grinning trader said.

“You’re carrying an entire armory under there.”

“And then some.”

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The Trader tapped the side of his hood. “Organization’s everything.”

The crab nodded appreciatively. “As a fellow merchant, I can respect that.”

“Trader,” the man corrected, still smiling.

“Right,” Balthazar said, rolling his eyestalks. “Trader.”

He did not know why or exactly how, but the crab was beginning to like that sinister figure.

“I reckon you’ve got somethin’ interesting in that bag yourself,” the Trader said.

Balthazar’s eyestalks brightened.

“Oh! Now we’re talking in my language—business!”

He immediately reached into the Crab Bag and his claw disappeared inside.

“Let’s see… No… That's for winter… Definitely not that… Where did I… Ah!”

With a satisfied grunt, he pulled out a battered copper kettle.

The Trader stared.

The kettle stared back, in the manner only an inanimate object could.

“There we are,” the crab said, proudly presenting it.

The cowled man nodded. “A fine kettle.”

He waited, as if expecting a follow-up that the crab did not provide.

“So?” the Trader finally said.

“So?” the merchant replied.

“Aren’t you going to give me your sales pitch on it?”

The crab guffawed loudly.

“Do I even need to?” he said, raising the kettle dramatically, “This is an indispensable traveling companion.”

“Is it now?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Balthazar assured before he began counting on one claw. “You can boil water with it.”

“Makes sense,” the Trader said with a single nod.

“Cook soup,” the merchant continued.

“A sensible choice.”

“Brew tea.”

“A necessity.”

“Warm your claws on cold mornings.”

“Comfort’s important.”

“Collect rainwater.”

“Practical.”

“Use it as an emergency helmet.”

The Trader tilted his head. “Can ya?”

“Well, I never tried, for obvious reasons,” the crab admitted while waving a claw around his clear lack of an actual head. “I can wear some hats, but helmets I haven’t quite figured out yet.”

“So you don’t know.”

“I choose to remain optimistic.”

“Fair enough,” the Trader said with a chuckle.

“And if negotiations with difficult customers go particularly poorly…” Balthazar gave the kettle an experimental swing through the air. “It also has a surprisingly respectable reach.”

The Trader laughed properly this time. “I do like the way you think, crab.”

“I was hoping you might,” the merchant said while tucking the kettle beneath one arm. “So, seeing as you clearly appreciate quality merchandise, how does… twenty-three gold crowns sound?”

The laughter stopped.

“Oh,” the Trader said while scratching thoughtfully at his chin beneath the hood. “That’s gonna be a bit of a problem.”

Balthazar frowned. “Too expensive?”

“Nah.”

“Too cheap?”

“Definitely not that either,” the shady figure replied. “The problem ain’t the number.”

The crab frowned. “What then?”

“We don’t use crowns,” the Trader said, spreading both hands into a half-shrug.

Balthazar stared quietly for a moment.

“You… what?”

“No crowns.”

“No coins?”

“Not really.”

The kettle slipped from beneath Balthazar’s arm. He barely caught it before it struck the ground.

“What do you mean, no coins?”

“We don’t use currency on Battershoal,” the Trader said, offering another shrug.

The merchant looked genuinely horrified. “No shiny coins?”

“Nope.”

“Silver?”

“Nah.”

“Copper?”

“Afraid not.”

Balthazar slowly lowered the kettle. His voice became little more than a whisper.

“How… How does civilization function?”

The Trader’s grin somehow widened even further as he gently folded his arms.

“Think about it, mate.”

Balthazar did. For several long seconds. Then he looked up.

“I have.”

“And?”

“I still think it’s barbaric.”

The Trader barked a raspy laugh.

“How can an entire island survive without proper currency?” the baffled crustacean asked.

“Easy.” The man lazily gestured toward the surrounding jungle. “We’re cut off from the continent. Been that way longer than anyone can remember. Crowns only have value because everyone agrees they do. That don’t mean much when the folks who minted ‘em are all the way over there and we are stuck on this island. So people here trade. Hence why I’m a trader, not a merchant.”

Balthazar stared pensively at the ground.

“I suppose that makes some sense.”

“Now you’re starting to get it!” the human said with a laugh.

Even if the merchant was grasping the reasons, he was still struggling to come to terms with the concept of a place without precious shiny coins. It was like a sunny summer afternoon without lemonade, or a breakfast without a fresh pastry. It was just… wrong.

“If you’ve got somethin’ I need…” the Trader continued, spreading one hand. “And I’ve got somethin’ you need…”

“We trade them,” the crab concluded.

The Trader clapped his hands together. “Exactly!”

“I still don’t like how much sense that makes,” Balthazar said, hugging the kettle protectively. “I like shiny coins. They look pretty and stack nicely.”

The Trader’s shoulders shook with another quiet laugh. “I’ve been told.”

The merchant glanced toward the camp behind him.

“So, what exactly do you trade?”

The Trader tilted his head.

“Depends who’s askin’,” he said, tapping his coat. “Some folks come wantin’ blades. Some want medicine. Sometimes trinkets. Sometimes secrets.”

Balthazar narrowed his eyes at the hooded figure.

“And what is it you figure I need?”

“Information,” the Trader stated with a hint of self-gloating. “That’s what you’re after.”

“Alright, that one wasn’t hard to guess,” Balthazar said, rolling his eyestalks. “So, tell me, how do I leave Battershoal?”

The Trader ran his hand down the seam of his coat.

“Ah, but that’d be just one question. There are so many more. What’s this island? What’s the Tempest? Why’s everyone trapped? What’s waitin’ further inland?”

“Yeah… no, pal,” the crab said, shaking his shell. “Only really interested in how to get out of here. I already have enough mysterious questions to deal with on the continent.”

The Trader bounced gently on his heels.

“Fair enough. If you think you can escape…”

“The island?” Balthazar asked with a cocked eyestalk.

“No, the questions,” the grinning man replied. “Either way, I can help.”

Hope flickered across the merchant’s face.

“You know how to leave?”

The grin softened almost imperceptibly.

“No.”

The hope vanished just as quickly.

“No one on Battershoal knows how to break the Tempest,” the Trader said, his voice remaining calm.

Balthazar sighed. “Figures.”

The Trader slowly lifted one finger. “What I can offer is… where to begin.”

The merchant felt himself growing increasingly impatient with the man’s riddles.

“Alright, just tell me how much for the information.”

The Trader spread both hands. “You already know the answer.”

The crab groaned. “A trade.”

“A trade,” the hooded man echoed, a note of satisfaction in his tone.

The crab glanced down at the kettle under his grasp and then at the human.

“Hmm?” Balthazar said, flicking both eyestalks.

“You’re persistent,” the Trader said with an amused chuckle.

“My profession demands it.”

“I admire that. But still, no.”

The crab frowned as he shook his shell in disapproval. “Everyone needs a kettle.”

“So I’ve just been told,” said the Trader. “But there is somethin’ else I’d like more.”

Balthazar’s posture straightened.

“A favor?”

“If you like.”

“It better not be a quest.”

The hooded man chuckled once again.

“If callin’ it a trade helps ya sleep at night, let’s call it a trade.”

The merchant narrowed his eyes.

“That sounded suspiciously like yes.”

“I seem to’ve misplaced somethin’,” the Trader continued. “A marble, to be exact.”

Balthazar stared blankly. “A… glass marble?”

“A little blue one,” The Trader replied, holding his fingers a short distance apart. “Pretty thing.”

The crab looked around the clearing.

“You lost a marble?”

“Mhm.”

“And you want it back?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

The grin widened once more.

“Because it’s mine.”

“That hardly seems worth—”

“Oh, it’s worth exactly one story,” the Trader interrupted him pleasantly. “And that’s precisely what you’re askin’ to buy.”

Balthazar scratched thoughtfully beneath his shell.

“Where did you lose it?”

“A beach not far from here, opposite the one you came from.”

The Trader pointed toward a path leading out of the camp.

“And how in the world am I supposed to find a tiny marble on a beach?!” the crustacean said, stretching his arms out in exasperation.

The Trader grinned again, something that was quickly becoming less unsettling and more concerning to Balthazar.

“Try asking some of the locals there. They might help ya.”

The merchant pinched the space between his eyestalks and took a deep breath.

He would have made a joke about how that strange guy had definitely lost his marbles, but given how Balthazar was about to help him too, he felt he wasn’t one to talk. But if it would get him closer to finding a way off that place, he’d do the man that favor and go ask the people at that beach if they had seen his precious marble. Hopefully they wouldn’t be as eccentric as the sample of Battershoal’s inhabitants he had experienced so far.

“Fine,” the crab said. “I’ll help you, and then we’ll trade your marble for the information I need.”

“Good!” the satisfied trader said. “See ya soon, mate.”

Wishing to waste no more of the fleeting sunlight, Balthazar took off in the direction the cowled human had pointed without even so much as stopping to address the three adventurers camped nearby.

A familiar notification popped up in his field of view just as the merchant reached the path out of the clearing.

[Quest started: Find the Trader’s Lost Marbles]

Balthazar sighed.

“Of course it was a quest…”

Under the quest, the system displayed another line with the first objective, which made the merchant’s eyestalks curve inward.

[Head to Crab Beach]

Balthazar swallowed dry.

“What do you mean, Crab Beach?!”

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