The buyer wants a dragon that doesn’t exist. They are searching frantically, waving around a crude drawing with the imagined details and shouting Bump! occasionally. Desperation takes a hold of the buyer. Please. It’s invaluable; they’ll pay you 3 gems and their left shoe if you can show it to them, this dragon that does not exist.
The thread starter is one and a half sentences long, 5 words are misspelled. You can’t tell what they want, so you move on. You check back later to find that the sentence has been replace by a heartfelt description heavy with lore and flowery prose. Reading it brings you to tears. You still cannot tell what they want.
The buyer details out reasonable specs, not too broad and not too narrow. everyone shows them dragons that fit the bill. the thread goes on for 7 pages. It keeps going. The buyer cannot find the dragon that they want. The page count approaches infinity. Sellers are running out of dragons to show. They are becoming afraid; desperate. The buyer can not be appeased.
You scroll through the titles and see countless buyers asking for Cryface. The dragons flow in from every flight, forming a magnificent procession, gilded and gleaming. This one is gold. Three sisters march in front of the buyers, all in identical blue. Where is she, the buyers lament. Show us the Crystal Facet. They cannot see the dragons right in front of them. Red tears stream down their faces.
Black is not dark enough, red is not rich enough. They never have been. The shadows demand the sheen of Obsidian, the plague-touched tinge of Crimson. This request is half-whispered between the lines, the reasons never spoken aloud. You dare not question it.
Do not ping the buyer. Do not speak to the buyer. Do not make eye contact with the buyer. Approach slowly, chant the hymn of prices, and leave your dragons at the alter. Run. No matter how much they plead with you, do not look back.
They want a double, a triple, no near misses. You take aim. The colors bleed into each other as you prepare your dragons, hands stained. You write the results down. XYY. XXY. XYX. You pray to your flight’s god that you did not miss.
Will accept items for trade, the sign says. Which items? You offer it all the scrolls in your house. Not enough, the sign says. You place the ritual objects at its feet, from festivals long past. Not enough, the sign says. You give live captives, several hundred pounds of dead fish, and finally the apparel off your back and set them all neatly atop the growing pile. T h a n k s, the sign bellows, and your old things take the shape of a dragon. It weeps. Is this the Cryface, you wonder as you carry the hatchling home.
There is only one bullet point in the list of requirements. It reads: Must not be a snapper. You don’t think you’ve ever owned any snappers, so you readily offer your dragons. The buyer declines; it’s grandmother was a snapper. We must cleanse the land of their curse. Off in the distance, you can hear other buyers chanting. No snappers. No snappers. No snappers.
You have been summoned. You do not remember signing any contract, and quietly ask the seller to take you off the pinglist. Three weeks later, you are summoned again. A different seller is running the shop. They tell you that you were never on the list. No one can figure out where the pings are coming from.
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