Fae Courts The Goblin Market - Decannual Move

[Grimn]

The Fringelands
Northwest of the Spine

OOC - Please read the notes below for a quick reference on the Goblin Market and #ifyourcharacterwouldknowaboutit


There were many layers to the world through which a creature might find their path of survival. For most, there was the surface world. Known to some as the Overbright and to others as simply nothing more than the only thing they would ever experience. There they might live through the seasons and feel the warmth of the sun on their face or the bite of wind in their hair, completely oblivious to the lives taking place far beneath their feet.

Folklore told of a place deep, deep down beneath the crust of the planet where it was so dark that the creatures living there had evolved skin and eyes that glowed and could see into the blackest reaches. This they called the underrealm or the Underdark. There landscapes existed in open caverns that span the world over, as traversed and populated as its surface counterpart, but arguably far, far more dangerous.

And then there was the Inbetween. The crust of Arethil made of dirt and stone and elements yet to be discovered by mortal creatures for the depth far exceeded their ability to uncover. The tunnels here were treacherous and full of horrible beasts, though pocket caverns existed where a culture might bloom for a time. Many of those pockets had long since gone still, though the ruins and rubble and bones of the ones that came before still slept there.

That is where the Goblin Market made its home.

Every few years the market moved to keep the flow of contraband and clientele fresh. Stagnation wasn't good for business, after all, and the market was long since overdue for a change of scenery.

"Well," Grimn remarked as he stepped out into the rays of a setting sun over a landscape of craggy green terrain roughly torn in half by a wandering river, "at least it's not fucking snowing."

He'd had quite enough of snotcicles, frostbitten ears, and frozen gonads.

"Roight, you lot, get this place open. I wanna see fresh grimey patrons walkin' in by nightfall."

The Goblin Market bowed to no master and paid homage to no Kingdom, but when the Black Prince's Enforcer cracked the whip on the slaves that made this entire move possible, you didn't complain.

Making a hidden entrance to one of the world's best kept secret black markets was no small task or feat. Grimn didn't have that sort of magic, but others did and it was the others he let get on with their task. Within the broken landscape a pathway hidden by fae magic slowly emerged from the wild and untamed landscape. It wound through a narrow valley that rested between the rise of stone that formed a massive plateau. The pathway eventually became too narrow for mounted creatures, forcing patrons to walk the rest of the way on foot.

Eventually it lead to a flat stone wall that looked like nothing at all. But with the right magic and the right word of entry, it became a hidden passage that took one deep into the heart of the Fringelands plateau. Eventually the rock tunnel opened up to the ruins of a once-fallen civilization where dilapidated building of stone had long since crumbled to pieces. There one could find the entrance and the horrible things that stood guard.

THE KEEPERS

Known only as the Keepers, these creatures that loomed in the doorway were so twisted and disfigured as to be indistinguishable as fae, but the aura of power and magick they gave off was enough to make a mountain wilt. The one standing closest to the open doorway would beckon the patron forward and withdraw from his cloak a dagger made of gleaming red crystal. Every patron paid the blood toll to enter the Goblin Market. Even the Dark Prince's Enforcer. No exceptions.

Grimn sighed of boredom as he took the blade in his hand and pierced the opposite palm with the tip. The first thousand times he'd watched as the blade drank in his blood with silent wonder. He didn't wonder about it anymore. When the deed was done he stalked languidly by, yellow eyes scanning the faces of the entry hall for his partner in business and grinning broadly as he found the fae hunched over a rousing game of Bohnes.

"Harleth," Grimn gripped the other on the shoulder, "you owe me a round or ten."

It didn't take much to convince Harleth to drink, so onwards they went, walking the tunnel as it sloped down into the pits of the Inbetween and the new pocket cavern the market had settled into.

THE GOBLIN MARKET

OOC -

What is the Goblin Market?
It is a secret, underground fae black market run by a Conclave of Dark Fae - thirteen leaders from various fae or fae-adjacent races known as The Keepers. It has no allegiances or allies and recognizes no higher power or local laws, regardless of what fae lands it may be located within at any given time.

What can you find at the Goblin Market?
Pretty much anything and everything. Normal things you might expect at a fae-centric market, and all the things that are illegal in many, if not most of the fae Courts. It is a large center for slave trade as well as illegal smuggling and fighting rings.

What sort of magic protects this place?
Ancient dark magic that not even the leaders of the fae courts have the power to undo. The Goblin Market has existed for countless millennia without falling. Yes, raids have happened, but seldom are they successful to the point of being worth the effort. A combination of high-fae and eldar magic is what hides it from mortals and fae alike.

Do I need magic to find/access the market?
Yes, magic is required. If you don't have it, you need someone who does to take you there.

How can my character know about it / find it?
Is your character a fae or fae-adjacent (goblins, elves, druids, etc) creature? Is your character involved in dark and dastardly dealings? Was your character a slave or perhaps smuggled through? In the general sense, if your character isn't one of these things, then it is highly unlikely they would know about it, let alone be able to find and enter it. Knowing the right people who know where it is and how to find it is one thing (having a guide), being able to access it without magic or help is quite another.

Keep in mind this is a WELL HIDDEN, HIGHLY PROTECTED, and VERY SECRET market. If you don't feel like you should know about it or should be able to access it, come up with a cool story as to why you do/can.

Any questions send me a DM or hit me up on Discord (I'm Velaeri). Have fun!

 

[Little Doll]

The Goblin Market pulsed with life, shifting and twisting like a living thing, its lantern-lit pathways thick with the scents of damp earth, burning herbs, and the metallic tang of old magic. Stalls spilled over with strange and forbidden and stolen things. The air was alive with haggling voices, the clink of coins, the rustling of secrets being exchanged in the shadows.

And yet, in the heart of it all, she sat unmoving.

Propped against a pile of tarnished trinkets and moth-eaten silk pouches, the small porcelain doll was easy to overlook. A delicate thing, no taller than a forearm, dressed in the faded lace of a long-lost era. Her auburn hair still soft and meticulous, framing her pale face, and her lips, painted soft rose, were ever-so-slightly pursed, as though she was forever tempted to spill secrets.

Her glassy, brown eyes did not blink, but she was watching.

The goblin trader had carelessly placed her among his wares, thinking her just another forgotten treasure, a curiosity to be sold to the highest bidder. He had plucked her from the wreckage of an old vault, dusted her off, and placed her here, surrounded by rusted amulets, timeworn brooches, and cursed rings waiting for foolish fingers. He did not know what she was. Who she was.

Neither did they.

The wanderers who passed, eyes gleaming with hunger for lost things, had no idea what lingered beneath the porcelain, what listened as they brushed too close.

She had spent so long in darkness. Time had blurred into nothing inside that box, her thoughts dissolving into silence, her name slipping like sand through grasping fingers. But now, after so long, she was here. Not free. Not yet. But close.

And so, she whispered.

"Hello.. Aren't I pretty? A gift for your daughter, perhaps?"

The words were no louder than a breath, barely a suggestion in the air, but the male at the stall stiffened as though a cold hand had brushed the back of his neck. His fingers, which had been hovering over a bundle of rusted keys, twitched as uncertainty flickered across his face. He turned his head slightly, scanning the market with narrowed eyes, searching for the source of the voice.

But there was no one. Just the goblin trader, grumbling under his breath, and the endless murmur of the market. After a pause, the man shook himself and stepped away.

Little Doll did not move. She could not. But she felt something shift, a ripple in the air, a sliver of acknowledgment. Not enough to draw him in, not yet, but the first thread of doubt had been sown.

Another figure approached—a woman, her cloak heavy with hidden weapons and protective charms. A bounty hunter, perhaps, or a sellsword looking for a blade worth its price. Her gloved hand ran over the length of a silver dagger, the edge catching the lantern light like a sliver of moonlight.

"That would look wonderful on you.."

The woman inhaled sharply. Her fingers curled around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening as she jerked her head up, eyes flicking around the stall with sharp-edged suspicion. For a moment, she stood still, listening. Hearing something she shouldn’t have.

But doubt crept in too soon. She exhaled, muttering something under her breath before setting the dagger down and striding away.

Little Doll waited.

Her whispers were weaker than they should have been, her voice a mere thread of what it once was. If she still had her name, her power, they would not walk away so easily. But that would come later. For now, she would watch. She would listen. She would wait, and she would whisper.

All she needed was the right one—someone desperate, someone hungry, someone willing to listen just a little too long.

 

[Harper Kai]

“Bweehehehe. Didn’t think you’d get caught little starfish? Thought you was safe in winter? Bweheheehe,” her captor was a tall, willowy shade with skin that was nearly translucent but held a light red hue. He wore a tattered black cloak and hood. A set of pale eyes were the only things that pierced free from the cowl.

“Come along, my pet. Summer will pay a pretty price for your lovely head,” the shade tugged the glimmering rope that wrapped around her neck sharply.

Harper hissed at the sudden burn. It looked as thin and translucent as a fishing line. But it was a magicked silver. Harper assumed the owner would not be so easily burned. The water nymph held her head high even as she was yanked forward. Deeper into the goblin market. Those eyeing her as if she was nothing more than a piece of that dragon fruit. An object to be sold and bought. It made her sick.

And angry.

Her aqua lips remained sealed. For now. Head tilted as they passed a table, her eyes snagging on a female peering down at a..doll? Harper’s attention didn’t stay long. The Shade’s gliding pace wouldn’t allow it. And there was something darker. Something more ancient that whispered for her gaze not to linger.

Did it matter though?

If she was sold to summer, she’d be dead anyway.

“Come starfish,” the Shade barked again, pulling her deeper into the twisting rows toward his stall.

 

[Kael]

The Goblin Market was no place for a Dreadlord, and no place for a Dreadlord Initiate either. Perhaps in the deepest secrets of the Sirl house, or the Virak archives such things were hinted at, but it was a secret that Kael knew of that his 'country' certainly did not. Born to the shamaness of a goblin tribe, Kael had learned of the market. How while it shared their name, it was in many ways a fae smuggler's bazaar. Of the slaves that were common place, the exotic magics and secrets that could topple nations all for sale if one could provide the right price.

More specifically, he was told to do everything he could never to arrive. The shamaness had seen a vision of misfortune linked to his arrival at the goblin market. She was a leader of his tribe, revered as a prophetess. Yet she could not stop her own demise, or that of his tribe, at the hands of a single Anirian battlemage. Kael had made the decision to go against his mother's wisdom, finding the potential rewards worth the risk. Perhaps his mother was still right, but he knew she didn't see all.

It was the first time in years he had worn his own skin. In truth he didn't recognize himself. The last time he held this shade of green he was far younger, less developed, less hardened. Though still an initiate in Vel Anir, in any Goblin tribe he'd be considered an adult. A warrior. Perhaps even a veteran. But he knew that his old life dealt with players so much smaller than he thought possible. He made his way to the entrance and presented a hand at the guards. The dagger was drawn, blood was spilled, and the price for entry was paid. Now he had entry to the market. There was no reason for him not to be granted entrance, but the goblin was relieved.

He made his way through the market without a particular destination in mind. He knew what he wanted, but it would be difficult to find, and there was the matter of Kael being broke. At least in comparison to the merchandise he intended to purchase. Kael instead scanned the markets for fighting rings. If he could bet on himself, his training, perhaps he could earn enough to get close. While looking for such games he spotted a Little Doll of an exotic material he couldn't recognize, and some sort of water spirit Harper Kai ushered around by a simple wire he was certain held magic properties. The goblin made no effort to purchase either, but did hold a curiosity of the wares he hoped didn't show on his face. The Goblin Market certainly housed it's oddities.

 

[Yvoire]

Yvoire did not like being here, but the sheer secrecy and presence of the market was not what had her put off. It was her guard, someone of the Nexus and sworn to protect the Day Court's Princess. She had ignored all concern for a Princess to even be here in these unhallowed halls, but she was a female that liked creating new connections.
"Your Highn—"

But the guard was cut off by the chastising click of her tongue. "Ah, ah, ah..." The wicked smile graced her lips. "For someone concerned my identity would be found out, best to not use my title here, hm?" The Day Court rarely left their own lands, and Yvoire herself had only travelled to the Autumn Court and Vitae Court only recently.

"Apologies..."

"Call me Syn for Syndril if you must."

"Yes, that should suffice."

"Well," Yvoire sighed, "I best find The Abbatoir." Her icy eyes roamed the different stalls and tables, the cavern come to life with trade. Dressed in gear that made her look more hunter than Princess, Yvoire knew coming here was reckless. Whispers had come her way that the Night Court had eyes on her. There was no true way of deciphering if it were on good intent or foul, but either way, Yvoire wanted her own guardian that did not come from her cousin, the Queen. The Nexus were loyal to the Day Court, not just the Princess.

Oisinn gave her a concerned stare before casting his gaze wide, as if a signpost may give him direction. "Any chance I can dissuade you on this, Syn?"

Yvoire chuckled. "Not a chance." And forward she went, diving into the moving current of fae and bodies going deeper into the market. "I paid the price already, I may as well leave here for what I came for."

 

[Wordweaver]

Wordweaver was staring at the floating mirror in front, an expanse of sunlit savannah playing on her face as it met the bluest of eyes on its surface. They belonged to a dragonborn who mirrored her movement, tensing its muscles as she pursed and pulled her lips.

“I have enough of these blues, Laila,” the fae bemoaned, glancing at the shopkeeper. She absently swatted at a fluttering catalog as it tried to collide with her forehead. It dropped with a loud clatter, its binding chains rattling against the wooden countertop.

“I want purple. Can’t you just give me purples? I thought Pavlov’s selections were immaculate. It seems to be lacking today.”

Laila, the shopkeeper, bit down her urge to swear. Pavlov’s Exotic Apparels Modiste Services might not always be honest in their dealings—glazing over the ‘side effects’ of their goods to quickly secure deals and leaving the unwary with nasties—but they always strove to cater to the whims of their patrons down to the exact minute. That dedication was what kept customers returning: 50 years of scouring niche pieces for an even more niche market, pulling out all the stops.

The leprechaun Pavlov did not come here to play.

That was the motto her boss had drilled into them time and time again. But Laila was sorely tempted to quit and find another job, as the fae before her had now rejected the twenty-third natural purple-eyed reflection—because, apparently, none were quite purple enough.

“That is the best we can do, ma’am,” Laila replied, patience only in place because of the cloak that Wordweaver wore—something she recognized as Pavlov’s product. “We might offer you some more selections if you’d like to put in an order. I’m sure we could source one that matches your preferences.”

Wordweaver sighed, dragging out the sound dramatically. A lungful of myrrh entered her lungs as she did, and she allowed the magical properties of the incense to affect a fraction of herself, if only for a moment.

Despite being tucked conveniently on the right side of the Goblin Market’s entrance—smack dab in the center of the first block—what seized the souls of passersby and carried it to Pavlov’s was, in Wordweaver's opinion, its scent.

Rich, spicy woods and myrrh crawled out of the copious amount of smoke, each tendril slipping past rolls upon rolls of fabric tied with magic that formed the main skeleton of the stall. They caught the nose, seized attention, and momentarily distracted those who smelled it from all the grime and dampness one might expect from the underbelly of a mountain.

After all, it was certainly not the decor that brought people in. Aesthetics had been sacrificed in favor of security, with chained catalogs and enhanced samples trying to escape their yoke. Even with three stalls’ worth of space, the front part was fitted with just enough opening to accommodate a short countertop, manned by exactly three shopkeepers.

One of them, Wordweaver, had been monopolizing their attention for the past thirty minutes.

“Why, that’s a pity. I’d rather think that it’ll be more romantic if I find it by chance the next time I’m here,” Wordweaver said, taking pity on the shopkeeper. "Fate and all that."

She threw a glance at the yawning gap, where the gatekeeper demanded its bloody toll.

“Besides, I’m due for ano
ther meeting.”

 

[Grimn]

Time had very little value down in the Goblin Market unless you were bartering away years of your own life. Or the life of another, as it were. Either way, being on time for anything mattered rather little to the one known as Grimn. That he was expected by another completely left his mind once the first glug of grog sloshed into his belly.

Harleth was not a common fae - a dullahan with a crooked spine but one hell of a nose for finding premium skin. They decided to drink and talk on their way to viewing his latest wares. Grimn walked beside his associate, carrying the dullahan's head in one arm. How it came to be in his possession wasn't a question he was going to ask. When one hands you a head in the Goblin Market, you take it. And then you drink.

So drink he did.

"The Dark Prince has announced his upcoming nuptials," said Grimn as they stalked through the crowd, "and he wants ten dozen souls for the task."

"Wasn't his nuptials last year?" said the head in his arm. Grimn was still looking at the open space of air where the head should have been sitting at the top of his associate's body. He'd forgotten about the head.

"Yes," he said to the missing head, blinked, squinted, then looked down to the head under his arm, "yes."

"What happened to the last one?" asked the head of Harleth.

"Probably the same thing that happened to the one before," Grimn posited, making some vague gesture to signify a gruesome death.

"How many is it then for?" said the head.

"He has one every year," Grimn sloshed his drink in gesture and took another glug. His chin was wet with grog as he licked it from his lips, "like a birthday but... prettier. Bigger cake."

"It's your birthday?" hiccuped the head.

"Every day I'm alive, mate," Grimn nodded.

"Well happy fuckin' birthday! Give us a drink-" Harleth's head grinned and eyeballed Grimn's tankard. Grimn looked between the two, shrugged, and fed the head a glug of grog. It spilled out the bottom of its neck all over Grimn's trousers and boots.

Harleth laughed.

Grimn eventually laughed.

They laughed together.

Then Grimn suddenly stopped and glared at the head under his arm, "That's just wasteful, mate. Now you owe me another drink."

"How bout a birthday present instead?" Harleth's head looked around for something, spying a stand with a queer looking doll sitting among the various trinkets and baubles. He nodded to his own body, then gestured with his eyes over to it. Harleth's body ambled over, its headless self bending down as if to inspect the doll. It could not hear her voice given it had no head to hear it with, so it gestured to the stall vendor for the doll to inspect.

"What the fuck," Grimn lifted his tankard hand and pointed at the doll as Harleth's body held it up, "is that? I don't want that." He made a face.

"A friend," said Harleth, "didn't you say you always wanted one?"

"I have lots of friends," Grimn gestured to himself, swaying slightly, "in all the right places."

"But do you have a doll." Harleth raised a brow at him.

 

[Little Doll]

The doll’s gaze never wavered from Grimn, her smile eternal, as if it were carved into her porcelain face by time itself. The noise of the Goblin Market, the endless chattering, bartering, and haggling, all faded into a dull hum, as though the world had simply ceased to exist around them as she focused on this chance.

"I could be your friend," she whispered, and the words seemed to crawl into his thoughts, soft but insistent. "Your best friend."

It was difficult to be reassuring when you were a talking doll, but she tried.. The hunger in her voice was palpable, though, a need wrapped in velvet. The promise of loyalty, of something to rely on, in a world where nothing ever stayed the same.

"You’re lonely, aren’t you?" she continued, her voice soft."Everyone else wants something from you. But not me. I only want to be near you. I can give you everything. Everything you’ve been looking for."

Her words curled through his mind like tendrils of smoke, weaving into the very spaces between his thoughts.

"Power. I can offer you power... wealth.. Name your price.." The doll’s voice grew sweeter, more tantalising, like the promise of a forbidden fruit. "Aren't I such a good friend?"

The stillness in her, the eerie calmness, it was like an unspoken pact. She was waiting, always waiting, and she offered him a place beside her. She could be his forever.

"We could be together. No one could take us apart... Friends... Best friends...You’d never have to be alone again."

Her eyes glimmered, still unblinking, waiting for him to make the choice.

 

[Grimn]

Grimn squinted blearily at the doll, lip ticking up over too-many sharp teeth.

"You know... your ventriloquism has really improved," Grimn remarked drunkenly as he drained the last of his grog and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, loosing a thunderous belch that rattled the heads of everyone within a ten-foot radius. Including the head presently tucked under his arm.

"Why thank you," replied Harleth's head proudly before switching to a look of confusion.

"Put it-" urp, Grimn pointed at Harleth's body, "in the bag. The Prince can give it to his new wife." He grunted and waved dismissively, "Or whatever. I'm empty, let's get the fuck on with it."

More drinks. Rum this time, from Cortos, he decided. Now to find that bar...

Harleth's body silently bent as if to look at the doll in its hand and then turned to pay the vendor for her strange ware. Into a burlap sack went the doll, over Harleth's shoulder went the sack. It followed after Grimn and its head as they drunkely carved off through the crowd toward the next tavern stop.

 

[Afanas]

Afanas sniffed, remembering in detail the great deal of things his father relayed to him regarding the goblin market and its many colorful vendors, a few of whom he was personally acquainted to.

Indeed, his father was old, an ancient relic of a bygone era. So ancient was he that he claimed to have ushered into existence before the first primitive ancestors of man clawed their way out of the primordial sludge of creation.

Anafas' himself wasn't nearly as antique, having lived for a little over one hundred and fifty years. The passage of time still held sway over him, although, with each decade flying by, he dreaded, increasingly, the prospect of adopting his progenitor's worldviews.

Mortal lives meant next to nothing to his father. He always described them as fleeting, fickle things, existing for the sake of being trampled on and buried under the ceaseless wheel that was passage of ages.

Anafas' found himself appalled by that philosophy, especially now that he spent most of his waking hours surrounded by said mortals. His sire was a hypocrite, in a sense. Anafas' biological mother must've meant something to him a long time ago, no matter how much he protested the notion.

His train of thought was brought to a precipitating cessation once he finally reached the entryway into the market. One of the keepers, a hulking, gnarly thing somewhat similar to his father in stature, sized him up and chuckled. Its voice was gravelly, guttural, and wholly denuded of good humor.

"Little phage…little scourge…little hunger…" it intoned, prompting Anafas' to glower under the brim of his hat. Their first impression left a sour tang upon his palate.

"We shan't permit you entry until the toll has been paid in earnest. You may turn back, but we doubt you will. Your pride won't allow it."

Another keeper stepped forward, its gnarled arm outstretched, presenting Afanas with a wicked-looking dagger, its blade cast from the most sanguine of rubies.

Afanas snatched it from the figure's grasp and weighed the tool upon the flat of his palm. The crystalline blade sat there like a chip of living flame, stubbornly resisting Anafas' attempt to crush it with his grip.

Mighty potent magic was afoot here.

With a snort, he pressed the serrated edge against the side of his sinewy neck. In a single downward motion, he dissevered a major blood vessel.

The blood left the artery it belonged in surges, cutting a wide arc through the air before splattering all over one of the rough-hewn stone walls. What blood didn't reach the outside world, ended up being siphoned into the blade, much to Anafas' surprise. He hoped that the damn thing would get an indigestion.

The bleeding stopped so quickly that he barely had the time to clasp the ripped flesh. His tar-like lifeblood congealed at first, plugging up the gaping slash, before the flesh neatly knit itself back together, leaving no traces of a laceration in its wake.

He tossed the dagger back to the bemused keeper, who caught it with preternatural lissomness. The group quickly parted before Anafas, seemingly satisfied with his generous donation of ichor.

 

[Harper Kai]

The water nymph was dragged to a little space between a stall with stacks and stacks of scrolls and books on one side and on the other, jars of various creatures and...body parts suspended in a neon-looking liquid. She found herself staring at that liquid a moment longer than she wanted to show. And the shade caught her stare.

"Don't even think about it lil' starfish. Least you won't be a pain in my arse much longer." The shade reached a shadowy hand that trailed smoke a frost across her jaw. Though Harper didn't want to, her body betrayed her with a shiver.

There was a silver-gilded cage next to her with a pair of angry pixies chittering inside. The shade turned its attention to them. "Quiet down. I"m sure you'll be popular, too." Turning his tall, shadowy form, his voice hissed and slithered forward in a booming tone.

"SLAVES FOR SALE! GIVE ME YOUR BEST OFFER."

 

[Little Doll]

The burlap closed over her like a tomb. "A bag?" Really?

The whisper slithered through the thick, drunken air, curling around Grimn’s mind like ivy through cracked stone.

"How very... rude. Is this how you treat your friends, Grimn?" The words slithered, low and syrup-sweet, laced with something old. Something that knew how to wait.

'SLAVES FOR SALE! GIVE ME YOUR BEST OFFER.'

"You should buy a slave, Grimn. For me. Let me out, let me out, let me out..."