At first, the ghost thought Dorian was the most pathetic mortal she had ever seen.
He didn't carry himself like a sorcerer or warlock. He didn't even smell like one (more like cheap soap, and occasionally of cabbage).
A clumsy, broke, wide-eyed fool who probably couldn't tell a cursed artifact from a lawn ornament. But at least he's quite the looker.
She curled deeper into the Mourning Veil, resigned to centuries of boredom under his ownership.
After all, just how bad could it be?
The first red flag came with the customers.
A merchant lady, sharp-eyed and skeptical, walked in demanding "something powerful."
Dorian, bleary-eyed and still nursing a half-eaten muffin, grabbed the first thing he could reach. a cracked goblet. and declared.
"Ah yes, this ancient chalice... once used in the banquets of the Supremes. Whoever drinks from it will dream of the wars they've won... and the ones still to come. But be careful... You might lose the war."
The merchant went pale.
The goblet rattled.
The ghost rolled her eyes inside the veil.
'It's just a cracked goblet for crying out loud.'
Still, the merchant threw a handful of coins at him and fled with the goblet clutched like a holy relic.
Dorian pocketed the coins, whistling.
And so it continued.
The next customer was a timid scholar.
He asked about forbidden knowledge.
Dorian, without blinking, dragged over a burnt and old scroll and said.
"This? This shows you the truth you've been searching... but the price is the soul you will leave behind."
The scholar gasped so hard he almost swallowed his tongue, bought the scroll, and bolted.
The ghost's unease grew.
'Perhaps... No.. No!.. all of them are just idiots.'
The cursed artifacts, the fake ones, began reacting too. drawn to his casual nonsense, their curses humming nervously in his presence.
By the third day, the ghost avoided eye contact.
By the fifth, she cowered under layers of dust.
By the seventh, she was convinced Dorian was some ancient, unsealed evil. walking, living eldritch being. She was deeply afraid of him.
So she needed to escape.
That night, when the shop closed and Dorian snored in the back room, the ghost made her move.
The Mourning Veil fluttered from its stand.
It slithered through the cracked window.
Onto the street.
Freedom! Freedom at last.
She floated down a misty alley, heart (or whatever ghosts have) pounding.
Twist.
Turn.
Another turn.
And another twist.
And she stumbled.
...Back into the front of Dorian's shop.
The door creaked ominously.
Dorian snored louder.
The ghost froze.
I..its just a Coincidence, she told herself. She tried again.
Another alley.
Another turn.
Across a small garden, through an abandoned bakery, skimming over the rooftop.
...and she landed smack against the shop's back door.
He won't let me escape me, she thought in terror. He's toying with me!
In truth, Dorian hadn't moved from the couch, hugging a huge pillow and muttering about cheese.
But the ghost didn't know that.
She tried five more times.
Each journey ended at the shop.
Finally, trembling, she floated back inside and tucked herself miserably back onto her stand, defeated.
She prayed, harder than she had ever prayed in life, for anyone. anyone. to take her away from this lunatic.
Morning came.
Dorian emerged from the back, hair a mess, cup of black sludge (maybe coffee) in hand.
He peered around blearily.
Then he pointed at the Mourning Veil.
"You're next."
The ghost whimpered.
Dorian scratched his head, thinking what he could use for her origin.
"Hmm, what was it they said at the auction...? Something about...?"
He frowned. Blank. He had forgotten.
Shrugged.
Then, slipping easily into his usual nonsense, said.
"This here is the Mourning Veil. Used by a queen who watched her king fall in battle... who saw her kingdom. burn and crumble into dust."
The veil shuddered.
The ghost's non-existent blood froze.
That was my story! she screamed internally. HOW DOES HE KNOW?!
( •~•)
Dorian continued, unaware.
"Worn during the last dances of a dying court. Soaked in the tears of a lost empire. Oh, and it whispers to you at night."
The ghost would have fainted if she had a body.
She couldn't take it anymore.
She needed OUT.
The bell chimed.
A new customer. a nervous-looking woman in a thick cloak, stepped in.
Dorian brightened immediately.
"Welcome to Dorian's Curiosities! My lady are you looking for treasures? Curses? Or dare I say... a piece of the past."
The woman edged inside, glancing around like the shop might bite her.
She gestured weakly at the Mourning Veil.
"That... that thing there. What's the, uh, story?"
Dorian leaned in conspiratorially.
"Ahh," he whispered, "the Mourning Veil. It was used by a... Lonely Queen who watched her entire kingdom fall into ruins and the love of her life died. in her arms. A sad tale really."
The woman paled visibly.
"Wh-what does it do exactly?"
"Have you heard of the Alistair Venn Estate? You should know full well what I'm talking right?.. it happened quite recent actually the entire family. Vanished just like that as they couldn't handle the passenger."
"O-of course I know of it...
Do.. you know how to tame it?"
"Of course my lady, Ninety-nine gold coins. And I'll throw in a spell to make sure the ghost stay tamed."
The ghost screamed (silently)
BUY ME BUY ME BUY ME BUY MEEEEEE!!
The woman swallowed hard.
Threw a fistful of coins at Dorian.
Bought the veil.
And Fled.
The ghost felt pure, unfiltered joy as she was carried out of that accursed shop.
Away from Dorian.
Away from that monster.
She was free! Free!!
They bundled her into a carriage, horses clattering down the muddy road.
The woman sat back, veil clutched tight, muttering.
"It's fine... I can tame it... it's just a cursed object. It's just a cursed object. It's fine."
The ghost almost wept with relief.
The countryside rolled by.
Town vanished.
Fields stretched wide.
Freedom... finally...
A breeze picked up.
Paper scattered through the road.
One scrap, fluttering wildly, slapped itself against the carriage window.
The woman shrieked.
The ghost, curious, peered out.
And saw.
DORIAN'S POSTER.
A hastily printed flyer, stuck to the window, reading.
"Dorian's Curiosities: Make your wildest dreams come true."
"Visit Dorian: Curator of the Lost, Salvation for the Damned!"
The ghost shriveled in terror once again.
Somehow, even here, he had found her.
Or maybe fate had decided she was to be forever entangled with the mortal chaos named Dorian.
Meanwhile, back in town, Dorian locked up his shop for the night.
He jingled the keys in his pocket, smiling proudly.
"Not bad," he mused aloud. "Sold the veil for quite hefty amount. Got enough for beef tonight."
He strolled off into the sunset, whistling a tune only eldritch horrors would recognize.
Behind him, the items shuddered.
Some in anger.
Some in fear.
But mostly, in resignation.