where: his pawnshop with: whoever
bartemius was quite used to the residents of the small town bursting into his shop and rifling through his things. used to the demands, the threats, the fear... perhaps because the majority of the items that were shelved, locked behind glass cases and hidden away had, at one time, belonged to them. but that wasn't his problem. every item has been procured fair and square, even if reluctantly, or under duress, in some hopeless cases.
"I guarantee, whatever you are looking for you won't find it in there..." he drawled, leaning against the doorframe that separated the front store room and the back, private, room. "perhaps I can help you, and you can stop disturbing my things." he muttered as he fiddled with the cigarette packet in his pocket, waiting for the stranger to respond, in whatever way they saw fit.