"Liora runs the apothecary." Calla guides me over to the stall, where the scent of herbs and something faintly magical hangs in the air. "Liora, this is Brakkor. He's working with me at the paper."
Liora extends a hand that smells of lavender and something sharper—perhaps mint. "Pleasure. Maddie's mentioned you're settling in well."
"Still figuring things out."
"Aren't we all." She holds up a small amber bottle. "This one's for clarity of thought. Might be useful in your line of work."
Before I can respond, a gnome couple approaches the stall, the woman barely reaching my chest while her husband comes up to about my waist.
"Mrs. Penwhistle, Mr. Penwhistle." Calla's smile transforms her entire face. "How are the festival banners coming along?"
"Nearly finished." Mrs. Penwhistle's voice carries the warmth of someone who's spent decades perfecting her craft. "Though I must say, the embroidery work is more complex this year."
"Mrs. Penwhistle runs the finest embroidery shop in town." Calla touches my arm lightly. "Mr. Penwhistle, this is Brakkor."
The gnome studies me with sharp eyes. "Journalist, right? Heard you've been asking questions."
"It's what I do."
"Good questions or troublesome ones?"
"Depends on your perspective."
Mr. Penwhistle chuckles. "Fair answer. Welcome to Harvest Hollow."
As we continue through the square, Calla stops at a tailoring stall where bolts of fabric in autumn colors cascade over wooden tables.
"Alma, how are the festival costumes progressing?"
The seamstress looks up from her measuring tape, taking in my broad shoulders and height with a professional eye. "Well enough. Though I notice we have someone new in town who might benefit from proper fitting."
"Alma Rindle, Brakkor Vane."
"Pleasure." Alma circles me once, her gaze calculating. "You know, I have experience tailoring for orcs your size. The key is proper shoulder accommodation and reinforced seams. Most seamstresses don't understand the structural requirements."
Her matter-of-fact assessment carries no judgment, only professional interest. It strikes me that she's talking about my build the same way Thornak discussed his trees—with respect for what something is rather than what it should be.
"I appreciate the offer."
"Think about it. Festival's coming up, and everyone should have something that fits properly."
As we move deeper into the square, I watch Calla transform. The controlled editor who measured every word in our meetings dissolves into someone who knows exactly which vendor needs encouragement and which child requires gentle redirection away from the lantern strings.
"Granda Oltar!" She waves at a dwarf whose beard reaches nearly to his knees. "How's the guild booth coming along?"
"Aye, well enough. Though we could use another pair of hands with the heavy lifting."
"Brakkor, meet Granda Oltar. He's been organizing the craft displays for longer than most of us have been alive."
"We've met already, sweetheart." The dwarf sizes me up with practiced eyes. "You willing to earn your welcome?"
"Depends what needs moving."
"Tables. Benches. The sort of thing that takes three gnomes or one of you."
I find myself hefting wooden tables while Calla directs placement, her laughter mixing with the general din as Granda Oltar regales us with stories of festivals past. When a pixie child gets tangled in banner ribbons, she untangles them with the same patience she'd use for a complex news story.
"You're different out here."
