It is about 60/span/bF(15C) degrees. The mist is heaviest At Plymouth and Woodcrest/span

(Your target discovers a small antique shop that wasn’t there yesterday, run by an elderly proprietor who insists they have exactly what the character needs. The items for sale are mundane objects with minor supernatural curses – a watch that steals minutes from your life, a mirror that shows your worst fear, a pen that writes the truth whether you want it to or not. The shopkeeper desperately needs to make a sale to pay off a debt to something far worse than themselves.)

Axle is sitting, stretched out lazily on the sectional, TV playing in the background as he relaxs.

As Axle relaxes, an ad comes on, a little elderly man with clasped hands atop a cane that looks like an angel’s wing where he grasps it. Age has left many furrows in his skin, but much of it seems to be from joy, rather than sorrow. “Come on down to let me see just what will fit YOU,” he’s saying, as he shows off a variety of antiques in cases, some warded, most not. “No one likes a gift that feels like it was picked out by throwing a dart in the mall.”

The screen shows, as the ad ends, an address in Fairefield. Being a man of the town, as it were, Axle is well aware that even yesterday, that address was not a shop, certainly not an established place, already full of stock, even this morning. But, it’s there now, and apparently they have ads. There’s a quiet jingle that plays as the address is shown, and a speed-talking little voiceover about a current promotion covering everything in the store besides the owner himself.

“The hell?” Axle mutters. “That, was… not there before.” Noting down the address, he stands, stretching slowly. “Might as well.” Then, checking his axe, he makes for the door.

Sure enough, when Axle pulls up and swings his legs off his ride, there’s an antique shop. The storefront looks weathered as much as the owner does, like he’s simply passed the door every time he’s gone by, and never once thought to open it.

Should he go inside, the shop seems precisely as it appeared on TV, the bell above the door chiming playfully, if ever so slightly wrong. As the old man, Mr. Martel, is cleaning a glass display.

Studying the little shop, Axle rubs his beard, before heading for the door, pushing it open and giving that bell a critical look. “Morning.” He offers to the first person he sees, approaching the counter and setting a gloved hand on it.

As he looks around, he recognizes lots of Infernal, eyes itching as he looks, though it resembles much of what Maeve uses when warding him, or their allies, almost entirely seeming protective. Salt lines, and other more mundane forms of supernatural protection ensure each item is, even if not visibly warded, properly warded.

Axle looks around for a person.

His greeting earns him a warm smile from Mr. Martel, who hobbles over, and greets him as though he were a grandson or a nephew rather than a complete stranger and a potential customer. Noticeably, age has clearly shrunk him, hardly taller than most of the women that Axle tends to be around. “Oh… You’re quite the spry young lad. I think I’ve got the perfect thing for you. Are you in to buy for you, or someone else? A friend, a boss, a lover, a mother?” He’s jabbering, happy as can be, seemingly, as he strays behind the counter, pulling pieces out to put up on it, to show to him, as he talks.

“Uh, I’m less here for buying, but more, ah, seeing the sight?” Axle shrugs. “You got a lot of wards here, don’t you?” He waves over the selection. “Recognize them as my girlfriend’s a magic type. Uses these sometimes.”

There’s a tightening at the edges of his smile, nerves showing through a split second, before they slip back behind the smile. “Of course, these aren’t just any sort of items, my good sir,” he starts up again. “Magical reesidue clings like glue to a location, and too much magic, you’re gonna have things crossing, and that’s the last thing you want. Might even be the last thing you see.” He winks and taps the side of his nose with a finger, knowingly. “So, you’re here, you need to buy something. I got lots of ideas. Maybe something pretty for that girlfriend of yours?” he suggests, tucking away what he had previously pulled out, instead a mirror, a subtle silver sheet covering its face, textured to be non-reflective. “Maybe some jewelry, we got all kinds.” There’s a foam tray, slits holding numerous rings, earrings, and bracelets.

“Not sure as that wasn’t a threat.” Axle comments easily. “And Mae’s got enough magical jewelry and bobbles as is.” He studies the items. “You got something a hiding in them? Once found a frog that tried to eat my damn soul. I’m not doing that shit again, nope.”

Mr. Martel gives a genuine laugh at that, answering without any hesitation, “No, no, nothing possessed…” though he does trail off, looking behind him at some of the items, as though checking, before he nods again. “No, nothing possessed. Just some ancient or antique bits and baubles, things to spoil your sweetheart.” As he slips the cover off the mirror, Axle can see it’s a beautiful mother-of-pearl backed piece, though for some reason the mirror itself is kept turned away from him, placed face down, as the man pulls out the next piece, a fountain pen, tiny pearls and luxurious gold leaving it looking functional, but likely meant as a displaypiece for anyone but a Fairchild. As he lifts it, the nib finds the glass and starts to write, beyond his notice. “Nothing here but beautiful gifts,” he insists, even as his hand keeps writing.

“That so.” Axle says dryly. “Well, fine as it is.” He reaches out, making to flip the mirror. “Whats this thing?” He asks, watching the man write as he goes for that mirror.

Even before he flips the mirror, which may have made it more obvious what’s being written, with keen eyes, Axle can tell that the firm lines that form the words Mr. Martel is laying out read, “NOT POSSESSED, JUST CURSED.”

When he looks into the mirror, what Axle sees is not his face, but instead, rendered in its silvery depths as though a portal to wherever it might be, is a glimpse of his greatest fear. Not what Mr. Martel would think, but what, genuinely, disquiets and terrifies Axle the most.

“Cursed? What the fu—” Then Axle’s eyes hit the mirror. His jaw clenches immediately, teeth snapping together with enough force to crush normal teeth right there. That hand, once resting casually on the counter, balls into a fist immediately, pressing down on the counter as the outstretched fingers stay glued to the mirror. “You, son of a, bitch!” His eyes narrow on the old man.

While it’s not the unintentional beheading that Axle is entirely capable of, the edge of the mirror certainly makes contact with the old man, and he stumbles and falls back, cane clattering as he falls like a gallon bag of mashed potatoes. He groans, reaching up to rub at the already forming bruise, and as he looks up at Axle, there’s genuine fear, deep, to the depths of his soul. “I just… I just need ONE sale, son, then I can leave… can leave this… your good, innocent town, that’s it. Just … let’s… let’s call it $5. Just a five dollar bill, and me, my wares, we’re gone, never to darken your… it’s my doorstep, but your… your neighborhood.” He holds up the pen, and Axle is smart enough to realize, it seems to force truth-telling, if one lies as they’re holding it, presumedly also while writing. His hand is still, save for the fear-laced shaking.

“Sale?” Axle asks, eyes already filled with a strange, almost unnatural anger. “Fuck your sale! And fuck you, you hell bound son of a piss ant!” He steps around the counter, stopping above the man and crouching, wrapping one gloved hand around his throat and lifting. “Your not going a damn place, as I live and breathe.” His voice is still shaking slightly, and beneath the fury, there is a deep, intense fear. “You picked the wrong fucking borough.” And then, he uses the man’s head to play whack-a-mole. With the counter top. No moles though. “Temple… Temple’ll handle this.” He mutters, boot moving to sweep the mirror beneath it, before his heel comes down like a hammer on the glass. “Cursed fucking abomination.” He lifts the man up, giving him a sharp shake, awake or otherwise. “Selling cursed artifacts, and in a borough where the Temple is looking? You damn idiot. And that… that thing is not going to anyone, ANYONE!” That last word is shouted, directly into the man’s face. “Not, a, damn, one of them.”

As Axle picks up the man, there’s a blubbering, terrified words coming, fear of being murdered, any thoughts short-lived as there’s a crunch as his head and the counter collide, the glass not giving way. He’s limp, barely responsive as Axle is speaking to him. “May… Maybe Temple can save me,” he gasps, through a throat nearly squeezed shut, a face leaking blood from multiple places, eyes gone bloodshot, tears of fear following laughter lines. “Pl… Please, I won’t call Temple, please, I don’t… this isn’t… I’m not here by CHOICE!” he yells as the mirror’s shards explode under the weight of the nearly seven foot tall behemoth.

Axle’s grip loosens slightly. “Your selling cursed shit, and your not here by choice?” His teeth grind together. “Explain. And keep that damn pen in hand.” He grabs the pen, had it fallen, shoving it back into the man’s hand before dropping him onto the counter and waiting, beginning to calm somewhat now that the mirror and its image are gone.

His hand shakes, fairly violently, as it scratches the nib through the blood. His words come in a struggle, coughing, wetly, as the pen writes for him. “BAD DEAL” stark where it cleans. He tries to explain, but nothing comes, whether from the assault or a part of the deal is unclear.

“With who?” Axle demands, seeming not to care about the man’s inability to continue, though he doesn’t move to hurt the elder further. “And why did you not come after us in the beginning of getting here? Its not like we’re hiding.” He lifts the sun, shoving it into the man’s face. “Take a look. Familiar any?”

The nib pauses, his hand shaking violently, whatever is being written in the blood certainly not by his own volition, and it’s… not English. Jagged, spidering lines mark the fresh blood, the familiar, if terrible, sight of Infernal spreading, but he can’t stop, even as it’s clearly putting his already damaged body under more stress. Seven, eight, nine runes span the spill of his blood, but none of that’s helpful to Axle. He did ask with who, though, and the man is clearly unable to discuss. He tries, again, to force words, coughing a fresh droplet of blood to join the rest, as his hand writes “CAN’T LEAVE” overtop the infernal.

“Damn it! And damn you!” Axle tells the man, before fumbling for his phone. Typing in a number, he lifts the phone. “I need someone with any knowledge of magic. Got a guy here in a deal, stop that writing! That’s making him sell cursed shit, and I don’t know what the hell to do about it.” He reaches out, trying to take that pen away. “Look, if you lied, your fucked, but if its like you say, we’ll help you j…” He glances around at the other trinkets. “Stay calm or what have you.”

Axle said just.

There’s obvious sounds of discussion before the person on the other end of the phone agrees that they will be able to allocate someone trained, though listening to the conversation is hard with how the man is blubbering apologies. He’s looking at Axle like he expects to be killed any moment, and Mr. Martel felt that strength, felt something give way, he’s aware that if he says or does the wrong thing, it’s not unlikely. He reaches for his cane, hands almost a blur as they shake, and he leans on it, heavily, as he stands, caught in that loop of apologies, particularly when he gets a glimpse of a mirror shard. But, Temple’s on the case, and the door seems to still be there, leading out onto Market Street, where it was before. The agent should be here any moment, and his presence is really only concerning the man more and more.

Having called in back up, Axle steps away, beginning to pace in front of the counter, watching the man like a hawk. “Calm down old man.” He says, not gently exactly, but not violent now. “Your fine. You’ll, be fine, rather.” He glances to the door, waiting just long enough for the operative before making his escape.

“I am?…” is the last thing Axle hears from the man, before a group of Temple operatives, armed and unarmed, swarm in, one meeting him outside, and the door banging shut behind them. The agent takes what information Axle has – most of it questionably useful, but every bit helps – and he’s both thanked and gently suggested to go on his way.