A Mischievous Tale of Magical Mayhem

1 | Ballsdeep Bay

Seagulls cawed over the endless roar of the cerulean sea as it crashed upon the beach and receded into the cresting waves. Feet clanked over loose, wooden planks barely holding aloft the small peninsular city of Ballsdeep Bay, thus unfortunately named after the original founders decided upon it after too many ales.

Horns blared from incoming coal-powered ships as chatter carried into every corner of the city, from the dockworkers to the merchants in their stalls. Meat and exotic plants sizzled over rusty barrel-fire grills, wafting along the salty breeze to entice hungry workers and travelers alike.

A mix of people thronged upon the long docks, representing every class, from servants to merchants, to tradespeople and nobles, and jostled shoulder to shoulder as they went about the business of the day. A lone figure with wild black hair and eyes green as new grass slipped through the crowd, almost invisible amid the chaos.

Though the seas were fair and the sky clear, a cold, spring breeze swept across the expansive bay. The young man, in scraps of clothing mended many times, shivered as he stopped before the public notice board, flier in hand, and frowned.

The sign stood at the landward end of the quay, where passengers would see it as they disembarked. Notices old and new plastered the dilapidated display like centuries' worth of bird shit. Space was limited, so the young man, who was called Benethane but more often went by Ben, picked a spot near the bottom corner. There, a leaflet advertising a theater performance that had taken place the previous winter still occupied a good square of real estate, and Ben placed his own handmade notice over it.

Tularul Tavern and Inn
Room and board—2 Silver Bits per day
Amenities include fresh air and a view of Ballsdeep Bay

The Tularul was situated outside the town proper, atop a high bluff overlooking the cove, and thus often the last choice of travelers in search of a meal and a bed. The last month had been especially bad for business, but the trading season had just begun; so Brixby, the innkeeper, had commanded Ben to make a posting and bring it down to the quay.

Ben had done his best with the penmanship, but he wouldn't lie. The Tularul had little to offer—he knew because the innkeepers had raised him—and he couldn't oversell it if he tried. There was no running water, the rooms were cramped and drafty, and there wasn't so much as a hitching post for a horse, much less a stable.

Still, the right people always‌ found their way, and he had a feeling his flier would do the trick for pulling in new customers. He didn't know why, but when he wanted something, it tended to find him, just like the stray animals that followed him wherever he went. It gave him a reputation for being strange, but didn't hurt when he wanted to find a mark. Laughing to himself, Ben pulled a nail from his pocket, stuck it through the top of the parchment, and tapped it into place with the hammer he'd 'borrowed' from the blacksmith's shop.

"Ah!"

He dropped the hammer, having missed the tack on the last strike, and hit his own thumb. He was terribly clumsy for a pickpocket.

Biting back a string of curses, he shut his eyes and forced himself to breathe through the pain. The tiniest touch upon his brow soothed him, and he sucked air into his lungs and laughed.

"Yes, I'm alright," he said, addressing the concern he sensed from the creature that had taken up residence in his tangled black hair.

Though Ben attracted all sorts of creatures, the sproutling was something new. He'd never encountered one before, though he'd heard of them, and this one had hitched a ride in his hair the last time he'd wandered beyond the city and ventured into the jungles beyond. In a hundred years or so, it would take root somewhere and become a sentient tree. In the meantime, the sproutling was in its larval stage, resembling a twiggy sprite.