Gatehouse Night Market
Hive Ward
The Night Market near the Bleakers’ Gatehouse is the black pearl of the Hive Ward. Steppin’ in there’s like diving into a pool of shadows. But don’t be fooled; it’s teeming with life, and not all of it’s friendly. The air’s thick with incense and suspicion—makes yer nostrils twitch and yer eyes narrow. Lanterns hung from ramshackle stalls flicker with eerie, otherworldly light, casting weird shadows across the faces of market denizens. You’re as likely to find enlightenment here as you are to lose a finger—or your soul. But what you will find are merchants, disguised as ordinary berks peddlin’ not-so-ordinary items. Over there’s a tiefling, face hidden ‘neath a hood, sellin’ vials of smoky liquid that promises untold powers. Yonder, a githyanki’s purrin’ softly about cosmic grafts that can change yer life—maybe not for the better, mind. The ground’s uneven, cobbled together from stones that feel like they were nicked from a dozen different planes. Step carefully, unless you fancy gettin’ lost in some trans-dimensional crack—or at least twisting yer ankle. And always keep one hand on yer jinkpurse and the other on yer blade. The pocketpicks come out at night. It ain’t uncommon to see Harmonium patrols sniffin’ about the nearby streets, lookin’ for some poor sod to make an example of, but the stallholders don’t like the Hardheads getting too close and there’s an unwritten rule of non-interference.
Then there’s the cutters you meet in the market! Let’s take a walk through together…
- Standin’ next to a rusty cauldron is a hag from the Gray Waste, brewin’ up a stew that smells like despair and tastes like regret. You can bargain with her, sure, but her price ain’t always in jink.
- Across the way, a cloaked aasimar peddles maps of Heaven, sketched in golden ink, claimin’ they can guide you to yer personal paradise. But remember, what looks like a stairway to heaven can sometimes be a highway to Baator.
- A shadar-kai, wearin’ more shades of black than I thought existed, offers forbidden tomes. If yer lookin’ to summon somethin’ ya probably shouldn’t, she’s right up yer dark alley.
- A tabaxi with an uncanny resemblance to a deity of luck trades in cursed trinkets. For every blessing, there’s a bane; for every win, a whopping great loss. Ya feelin’ lucky?
- A former Hellrider from the Blood War sells salvaged infernal weapons—dripping in agony and corroded by abyssal ichor. Sure, you might slay yer foe, but at what cost to yer soul, eh?
- There’s brain matter being sold by a dark robed illithid, for those interested in a ‘unique’ dining experience. Could boost yer intellect or leave you a gibberin’ mess. Bon appétit, or whatever.
- Looking to shapeshift, for fresh serpent scales or need a bit of venom for… research? This reptilian yuan-ti merchant has got what ya need. No refunds.
- A shadow fiend trader sells souls in jars. Uses ’em for foul magic, no doubt, but might be willin’ to part with one for the right price or the wrong deed.
- Looking for a quick power-up? How about some enchanted Frost Giant blood? Yeah, it’s as gruesome as it sounds. You’ll be strong as an ox, but twice as thick.
- A changeling offering identity papers, disguises, and even entire backstories. Perfect if ya need to become someone else—unless that someone else has debts, mind ya.
- Some poor berk’s sellin’ modron parts—arms, gears, eyes. Says they’re great for fixin’ things, but messin’ with Mechanus’ flotsam? That’s askin’ for extra-planar attention.
- A Haden tiefling peddlin’ teeth he claims have been pulled right from Cerberus. Good for weapons, spell components or just impressin’ someone at a fancy Lady’s Ward dinner party. Then again, who’s to say ol’ three-heads won’t come lookin’ for ’em?
- Some eladrin berk selling “contracts” that supposedly get you out of deals with the archfey. Whether they work or not, you’ll still owe this fey somethin’ considerable.
- A devilish cove from Baator sellin’ all manner of pain-inflicting devices. If yer into that sort of thing—or need to be—for a night, you’ve found yer corner of hell.
- Bits of dark crystal that can suck the light outta a room or the hope outta yer heart. Handled by a fetchling who’s more shadow than substance.
- A drow from the Underdark who can claims they can get you a direct line to some of the nastier sorts from down below. For a price, of course, and never a price you’ll like.
Just make sure you remember the three rules of the Night Market: No names, no receipts, no refunds. And, if the Hardheads ask, ya didn’t hear any of this from me, got it?
Source: Jon Winter-Holt, mimir.net
