[WTS] Waspo's House of Curios

[FAOK]

Fast, Honest Seller Thanks!

[Thor]

Good trader! +1

[ElManisero]

Greetings Friends and Clients of the Night;

When was the last time you were afraid? What scares you? These were the simple questions that ignited an evening of conversation between myself and several men at the tavern in town. The men and women of Salem are like any others. We fear the darkness and the creatures that call the shadows their home. We fear an untimely death at the hands of restive natives, or even the thought of drowning in a river too wide to cross. We fear the roar of bears and the call of the wild. We fear witches with their black magic and blacker hearts.



Yet, as we spoke of these terrors, a man in the corner of the tavern scarcely gave notice. One of the men in our group, curious to hear this outsider's opinion, turned to the stranger and asked which of these things was the least agreeable. After a long pull from his mug of ale, the stranger shook his head and replied,

"I fear nothing that has been said tonight. No spider, nor witch, nor beast could ever put more fear in my heart than my own son..."

The words fell like fresh snow on a Fall field; each man among us silent as we heard his sorrowful story.

"It was three Summers ago," the stranger explained. "My son was just becoming a man. Fifteen Summers before the Lord, tending cattle and just learning to work the plow with skill. Our farm is small, but between myself and my brother, we were looking forward to the third set of hands. All was well in the fields and all was right in the world, until the day he came home sick. It was just after sundown when he stumbled into the door. Well, more like he crashed into the frame. My wife was closest and when she helped him up, she could feel his clothes drenched in sweat. The boy was pale, gaunt, scared. He told us how he had been chased from the river by some opaque creature he could barely outpace. He managed to escape, but not without injury."

"Two days he lay in bed, fighting fits and seizures. On the third day, the Lord saw fit to take him from us."

At this, the men assembled bowed their heads and a murmur of prayer could be heard in the tavern. But the men paying respect to the Father above threw the father in mourning into a rage!

"Curse your God! Curse the Lord! For that spiteful Christ took my son and cast down a monster to torment us!"

"My son was laying dead in the house when that night his body rose again." The crowd gasped, but the stranger continued. "Like some unholy Lazarus, his eyes opened, but there was only black where once a soul had dwelled."

"My boy lunged at me, and I barely had the strength to toss him from me. He panted, wild-eyed, searching the room. He pounced on his uncle, sitting by the stove. In the commotion, my brother managed to pull a pot from the fireplace and bash the boy over the head. My son fell to the stone floor and shrieked out in pain. The contents of the pot, a rabbit we had cooked in garlic, covered his chest and for some reason caused him great agony. My brother, still in shock, was throwing anything he could grab at the monster. A fistful of chestnuts did nothing, but a handful of cloves caused the creature to let out another pained cry."

"By now, the boy had regained his bloodlust and fled from my brother's attacks. That's when he spied my wife - his own mother! - and set on her. She was cowering in a corner of our home, clutching a small cross she kept with her bible. When my son went to grab her, he saw the cross and recoiled. His back arched like a cat and he hissed in a tongue so foul, it still brings me to shivers.

"Before we knew it, the beast that was borne of my son fled through the door and went off into the night. I have not seen him, nor sleep, since that foul eve."



The man looked down into his drink. The tavern was as silent as a cornfield on a windless day. But, when faced with true terror, men do what is natural; they dismiss it. After a few moments of silence, a laugh and a cheer went up from a corner of the room. Soon, the rest of the men were back to their merry diversions; drinking, talking, gambling. Just as suddenly as the stranger recalled his sad tale, it was forgotten...

But, a shrewd listener such as I never forgets. No, I remember every detail of that man and his story, because I believe them both to be genuine. Surely, there is no such creature as the man described, but had you asked me years ago about witches, I would have said the same thing! Living in Salem has changed how I see the world, and I believe it has done the same to you, my friends and clients. We can see and believe far stranger stories than our simple family living back in Europe. Yes, for we have seen the darkness of the New World, and it is equally terrifying and majestic.

While this may be a hoax, I have nonetheless procured a few items I shall sell to those who wish for rudimentary protection against what can only be seen as another thing to fear in the scary Salem census:

Garlic Braid &Simple Crucifix

Your dark defender,
Waspo

[ElManisero]

Greetings Friends and New Clients:

It's been a while since I've had the time to pen a quick letter to my good friends. Forgive me if I do not write more often, but I have been keeping busy working on a Game of Riddles, which has brought me much merriment and a bit of vexation. But much has changed since I last wrote. Why, I was just in town and I saw all manner of strange and exotic stalls in the market. I've seen everything from Aztecs to Zionists - with pirates in the middle! Sometimes it looks as if a foreign bazaar has overtaken the sleepy corners of the Salem marketplace.

What a wondrous sight to see so many new and entrepreneurial puritans walking the streets. Sometimes it even seems as if the politics and bloodshed has taken a holiday... although I'm sure it will inevitably return.

Speaking of holidays, I have been neglecting my shoppe. I took a few days away from writing riddles to tend to my fields. It is a glorious sight to see pumpkins ripening on the vine, or cotton blooming at your feet. Whilst in the midst of my labors, I came upon the hollow log where I enjoy storing small objects. If you may recall, I had stored a grotesque masque inside, only to hear it taken away by unknown agents in the night. I checked the log the next morning, and found the masque was gone... but I did not check too carefully. To be honest, I was glad to be rid of the terrible visage, but now I was several weeks removed from the incident and I grew bold enough to give the stump a serious examination. I looked for the marks of a beast's claws, or the residue of a witch's potion - but I could find nothing strange - except when I looked inside...

Broken and rattling, I withdrew this strange object from the stump. I can only assume that the person (or persons) who stole the masque had for some reason left this device in it's place - as if offering me some trinket as a twisted barter. Who left it there? What is it... a toy? a weapon?

My mind is racing with questions, so I look to you, my friends and clients, for some sort of answer. What is this object I've been "given?"

I would surely pay a handsome reward for answers!

Your Stumped Stump Searcher,
Waspo

[ungodly]

it's an ancient percussion instrument called sistrum associated with Egypt and Iraq. Those were the days they made real music.

[ElManisero]

it's an ancient percussion instrument called sistrum associated with Egypt and Iraq. Those were the days they made real music.

Ah yes, I knew that there was a learned man in my circle of friends who knew what I now possess. Truth be told, I am no musician, and I have no idea why I would need such a trinket - or why someone so mysterious would leave it there... for me.

Before I came to Salem, I once knew a Moor. Booted from Spain, he traveled Europe with a band of Arabs. I had not thought of that man nor his friends until a month ago when I stumbled upon a familiar-looking tent in town. Pitched in the commons, the tent had an exotic smell of rosewater and smoke that can only come from one of those beguiling hookahs. I did not venture into the tent, but now that I know that my object is an Arabic instrument, surely those men will know where it came from and with luck, why it was given to me.

Thank you again for the advice. I shall write to you once I speak with those Arabs!

[ElManisero]

Greetings Friends and Musically Inclined Clients;

After finding out that I was mysteriously left with a sistrum after strangers visited my farm late one night to steal a grotesque masque I had hidden in a log, I embarked on a jaunt into town to find a band of Arabs living in a tent near the commons.

It had been a month since I first spotted the tent, only a short walk from the brick path that leads south of town. There, among thorn bushes, I saw a meager tent, foreign in construction but welcoming in appearance. I was cautious, but I heard the noise of several men inside. With great trepidation, I peeked in...

Inside were a few men and women, gathered in a small circle. They all stopped talking and looked squarely at the stranger standing in the door. I did not speak a word of Arabic, but to my great fortune a man spoke to me in the King's English.

"Are you lost?" he asked.

"I..I'm looking for someone who can help me," I managed to stammer out in reply.

An elderly man, the oldest of the group, nodded to me and waved his hand offering me a seat. I was nervous enough to take it and thank him.



He spoke no English, but I was able to explain my situation through a younger man who acted as an impromptu interpreter. I told him about the terrible masque I had taken from a poor, scared young woman who's brother had gone missing. I told them how the masque was then stolen from my log by unseen perpetrators, and how they left this broken sistrum in it's place. I told them I had sought them out because I was hoping this band of Arabs could help me realize the significance of it all. And that's when I heard it...

Laughter.

As it turns out, my knowledge of foreign cultures is about as advanced as my knowledge of witchcraft. You see, these were not Arabs at all - but gypsies. I had wandered into the tent of a passing family of gypsies who were on their way to Providence in Rhode Island after hearing it to be a land of religious tolerance.

While they had a good laugh at my misunderstanding, they weren't able to help me with my question. So I must keep looking!

Your vexed friend,
Waspo