On his off days, which were becoming increasingly rare, Haydn was usually stuck reading in his small apartment or visiting a nearby teahouse whether it be new or old. On the odd occasion, however, he stopped at a strange shop known by the name
The Phoenix's Key. An eclectic hole in the wall located in Lower Chevallier, despite its appearance it was in fact quite popular amongst those who knew what they were looking for, and surprisingly, considering the setting, that was not in fact a metaphor for illicit substances. No, around the Collective the store was famous for procuring magical oddities that could be used as components for various enchantments and inventions, products that the owner of the establishment, Kellam Quifir, would only ever refer to as keys. After all, in name
The Phoenix's Key was a locksmith, and to those who weren't with the Collective that was all it ever would be.
Really though, that wasn't entirely true. Haydn may or may not have known about the place long before he ever joined the organization it was affiliated with, and to say that had pissed off Kellam would be an understatement. It was all water under the bridge now, though, or so Haydn reminded himself as he absentmindedly petted Amadeus, who was sitting on his shoulder at the present moment, yellow eyes darting between the people around them. The streets weren't all that populated, as it typically went with Saturday mornings in Chevallier, but nonetheless there were more than a few interesting characters about, enough so that a man and his cat, Haydn wearing a brown cardigan paired with a thrift store t-shirt and mildly ripped jeans, were nothing more than the ordinary. Of course, given that they both resided in a nearby housing complex, most locals at least knew who they were in passing.
Regardless, the early trek was uneventful, just the way Haydn liked it. Soon enough, he stood at the dingy front door of
The Phoenix's Key, its elaborate red and gold sign, along with the prominent lock on the knob, betraying the rest of the store's appearance. Turning said handle open further did the trick, however, as a waft of some sort of incense... or maybe it was tea - he could only hope - hit his nostrils. What was eye-catching, however, were the great multitudes of shelves that were over-brimming with exuberant colors: of fabrics, tools, crystals, and everything in between. Oh, it had been too long since Haydn had set foot in the place, truly treated his eyes and curiosity to the wonders of the magical arts. Of course, to anyone who hadn't visited the place before, it only ever appeared to be a simple locksmith, but with the utterance of a certain phrase Kellam allowed one to see the truth. Not that Haydn knew was said passcode was at the present moment, the old elf usually wasn't too keen on sharing.
Speaking of, almost as soon as he stepped inside did
Kellam return from the backroom, white hair slicked back neatly although there was most certainly a dour expression on his face, a sentiment Haydn often saw on others in the morning and one he never really understood.
"Sorry, did I catch you at the wrong time?" he offered somewhat sheepishly, in which Kellam stared, slowly shaking his head.
"At least close the damn door before you start gawking, Sommillier; you've been here before."