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“I think I’ll need to find a clay maker’s shop,” you stood up, wobbling on the waggon’s porch.
Carinda nodded. “If it’s a form you’ll need for the Ecline Ore” —perceptive she was— “then making it out of clay would be the quickest way.” She stretched her fingers across her chin and lips, “But with the beasts’ …” She paused, shaking her head. She pulled the ponies’ halters with the reins, altering the waggon’s route.
“I think I know where it might be, do you want me to stay outside?”
Your master savvied that she would easily guess the nature of your masterpiece—its shape and its size—by the form you would ask to be made; she asked you, so you could say yes, and not have to tell her to wait around directly. The clay shop was a two-level boulder- and cobblestone building; it had the exact appearance as the other dwellings left and right of it. The -only- thing to differentiate it was a hanging sign. It was a thick wooden board with a ‘pair of hands shaping a bowl’ engraved on it.
As you entered the shop, a bronze bell above the door rang. It was far too close to your ears for your appreciation. A row of shelves guided straight to the counter; crammed entrances to the left and right of the shelves lead to a maze-like library of clay works display of all shapes and sizes. Some of the clay pots even had flowers growing in them: red and orange.
You thanked the Gods you were slim -and- small. You couldn’t imagine an adult passing here without accidentally breaking some of the clay work. You approached the empty counter: it had more space behind it than one would usually have. ‘Brick’ pyramids of clay towered at the back, with buckets of water as well as clay soil circling a sizeable spinning wheel.
Sitting on a woven thatch rug was a girl your age. She wore a dark-red conical cap with its apex bent over, with all of her hair underneath it.
She was working on some, still, misshapen clay pot. She didn’t react to the bell; how could she not hear it?
"Excuse me?" You cleared your throat, coughing into your hand. No reaction.
> She was way too young to be the owner … she must’ve been an apprentice, like you.
> Step up behind the counter and in front of the girl.
> Go to the bottom of the stairs and shout for the owner.
> Return to the door and try ringing the bell again, and maybe a third time, if the second time does not work.
> [Write In]
