A Delicate Pretty-Boy

The bell above the door rings, and a young man moves inside.

He’s handsome. In a pretty, sad sort of way. His delicate face is framed by long silver hair down to the neck. He wears a long black robe decorated with chains, clinging to his slender body and rather slim waist.

The pretty-boy notices you, nods, and smiles before slowly turning away to look at the objects on display. After a while, he picks up a few magic gems from a pull-out drawer and approaches you.

You get the impression he’s a mage of some sort. Up to 0.3% of the continent's population is born with such capabilities, and another 2% choose to develop them through university education. You’re part of the latter, and in your case, seeing someone with similar capabilities is enough to interest you to some degree.

“Are you a student at the University?”

He seems surprised at your question, but nods. “Yes. Second-year.”

“Seriously? Well, good luck with that.”

He nods again and stares at you. The pretty-boy looks like he wants to say something, but isn’t quite sure how.

“Go ahead,” you say. “Don’t be shy.”

He inhales. “Well, I just wanted to say I run a shop on Main Street, if you’d be interested in dropping by. It’s just past the fountain, and a sharp turn to the right.”

He’s quite brave, advertising his own shop at another’s, but in a way, you respect the hustle.

“What do you sell?”

“Sell?” His voice is low. “Oh uh, I’m a Dreammaker, by profession. I spend time with clients, and hope to give them dreams they can enjoy, or um take care of bad ones.”

“Nice,” you say. “Well, Dream-boy, if I ever start feeling sleepless, I’ll know who to ask.”

“Ducenne,” he says. “My name is Ducenne.”

“And I’m Yera. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

ing you three lentimes, Ducenne leaves the store, and ushering in a quiet yet again.