supply and demand
A collector:
In the end, that was one of the many things that Mr. Gold--Rumpelstiltskin--truly was. A collector of baubles; a collector of moments, turning points, in others' lives; a collector of impossibilities, and a collector of gateways and beginnings and endings, false or otherwise. How interesting, then, when being a collector of impossibilities and a collector of gateways--of connections, to and from--collided.
The man quirked the tiniest of smirks, expression otherwise impassive as one ringed finger lightly traced over the edge of the black velvet top hat's stiff brim. Magic thrummed beneath that barely-there touch, singing in a pitch that so few could truly here, and Mr. Gold paused for just a moment before tapping that same brim and pushing away the hat.
Its existence here, in this world (and even within Storybrooke itself), was a paradox in and of itself. Magic, here, was so very... particular. The prices and the demands, each coming in a different sort of coin to be paid: solitary, (almost) most assuredly--unique to this realm, cut off, and yet...
A door, of sorts, had fallen into Mr. Gold's hands.
Briefly, the magician's smirk deepened, there and gone again, and he wondered just what someone else might pay to be able to possess such an object once again.
