[ WP ] You run an RPG pawn shop . You haggle with adventurers who try to sell loot they 've acquired .

**The Dragonborn Comes, or The Tale of Self-Awareness** 
 
 I always imagined that the day I'd shut up shop, one of those renowned adventurers would walk in with something real special. A gemstone as big as my fist with an evil sorcerer ’ s soul trapped inside, maybe. A golden crown forged with dragon ’ s fire, perhaps. As it turned out, the day I shut my little wayside place down, only the most ordinary of things turned up. 
 
 I was standing, as I always do, behind my counter, trying my best to be as jovial as possible. I find having a little something-something in your drink help after 20 years on the job, but don ’ t tell my wife that. 
 
 In walks a forlorn, bedraggled soul, clad in those rags they give you at the prison down the road, so already I know this day ’ s off to an *excellent* start. 
 
 “ What have you got for sale? ” the poor wretch asks, fumbling in his robe for what I imagine will be an iron dagger. 
 
 `` Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that,'' I say as brightly as I can muster. 
 
 He grins eagerly and with all the care of a new mother, lays down his prize on the polished wood of the counter. It ’ s an iron dagger. 
 
 Holding back my inward sigh, I smile encouragingly. “ Never seen one of those before! ” I quip. 
 
 “ I ’ m the Dragonborn! ” the guy says, eyes glittering brightly. 
 
 I nod, sensing that not all the dwemer cogs are turning in this one ’ s noggin. 
 
 “ …I see. I ’ ll *definitely* have to have this piece then! ” 
 
 I buy the poor sod ’ s iron dagger for a few paltry gold and he sprints out, looking happy as larry. These types always come in here with some battered relic and I humour them. They ’ re never normally quite that batty, to be fair. But business has been slow with all these bloody great big dragons flying around. I mean, I ’ m all for dragon-forged weapons, but the whole point is that they ’ re worth a centime because we ’ re no longer plagued by the clumsy pests. Honestly, the amount of leftover guard I ’ ve had to scrape off my front porch because the stupid sod ’ s tried taking down a dragon with an arrow… 
 
 The door creaks open again, and another sorry looking individual creeps in. He ’ s crouching oddly and moving at the pace of a snail. I wait, patience thinning, as he slowly makes his way to the counter. 
 
 “ What have you got for sale? ” he says after liberally scanning the store with his eyes. 
 
 I take as deep a breath as I can without being obvious, slap on a smile and reply, “ Some may call this junk. Me, I call them treasures! ” 
 He merely nods and rummages in his sad-looking robes, pulling out a dagger. Gods alive, why do I have to suffer these idiots? I wonder. As I ’ m giving him his gold, he leans in conspiratorially. “ I ’ m the Dragonborn, ” he whispers. I muster up a confused smile and send him on his way. Two crazies in the same day… must be getting tougher with the torture down at the prison, I think to myself. Little did I know how wrong I was. 
 
 No sooner have I dispensed with that ragged wretch than another one walks in. “ Let me guess, the Dragonborn? ” I joke, but he turns to me with eyes as big as saucers. “ How did you know?! ” he gasps. “ …Lucky guess? ” I reply. “ Don ’ t suppose you ’ ve got an iron dagger on your person you ’ re looking to sell? ” I add with a slight wince. Lo and behold he has a rusted iron dagger on his person. Well, blow me down and call me Emperor Titus! 
 
 By this point I ’ m getting annoyed. For the gods ’ sake, I actually want to *sell* here, not just buy worthless old junk off people who smell worse than the local pub. If it weren ’ t for the law of the land stipulating that we have to give these blighted fellows a chance, I ’ d be kicking them out. 
 
 And so the rest of the day goes. 
 
 “ What have you got for sale? ” “ A little bit of this, a little bit of that. ” “ I ’ m the Dragonborn! ” “ Mmhmm, here ’ s your gold. ” 
 “ What have you got for sale? ” “ Take a look. ” “ I ’ m the Dragonborn! ” “ Good for you mate. Here ’ s your gold. ” 
 
 And so on. I don ’ t know when it finally gets to me, but something in me just snapped. After the twentieth beggar or so with a bloody iron dagger saunters in, I ’ m praying to whichever god will listen that they ’ re not the ruddy Dragonborn. 
 
 “ What have you got for sale? ” 
 
 I clench my jaw. “ Take a bloody look. It ’ s all here. ” He looks a little startled at my lack of welcome, but this doesn ’ t put him off. He reaches into his robe. My eyes narrow. As if in slow motion, his hand emerges with the hilt of a dagger between his fingers. My nostrils flare, and my vision tunnels. As he lays the dagger on the counter, he beams up at me with an innocent smile. 
 
 “ I ’ m the Dragonborn, ” he says. 
 
 At this point I lose it. I snatch the dagger, run to the door, fling it open and scramble to the middle of the town street, screaming blue murder at the sky. Not that anyone bloody notices. The little orphans continue to play tag, the mercenaries continue to swagger, the guards still puff up with Empire pride. I ’ m stood there, chest heaving and tears in my eyes, when one of the buggers who tormented me walks up to me and stares intently at me as if I ’ m supposed to say something. Jim the Imperial Guard, the bluntest tool in a box full of rocks, sees this and leans in. 
 
 “ I used to be an adventurer like you, ” he says to Dragonborn guy number whatever. He pauses for effect. “ Then I took an arrow in the knee. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m the Dragonborn, ” the bastard replies. 
 
 And that ’ s how I ended up here, in the prison just down the road. I shouldn ’ t have stabbed that Dragonborn guy, I know that now. But at least my days as an obsequious merchant are over. 

