Bradley

The Colonnades of Antiquity are a hub of commerce and curiosity, and that makes them the perfect place for some selling a whole lot of nothing. Gullible tourists, senseless adventurers, and naive research techs that may as well be wyrmlings for all the youthful innocence in their eyes fill the winding streets of the city, peering curiously into every stall in the bazaar. Bradley stands in the shade of his bright blue tent, resting his back against one of the wooden support posts that gives an alarming creak as his weight settles on it. He straightens up and rolls his eyes.

What a dump, he thinks.

He walks back to the proper entryway of his shop, the building, not the tent that expands from the awning during market hours, out of the blistering summer sun. There's one hapless chump currently perusing his store, a turquoise guardian who is enamored with a small Flamecaller doll that sits on a hastily dusted shelf. It's too bad for them that the doll is not, in fact the genuine article from ancient elemental artisans, but was instead dyed and hastily sewn together by Bradley himself in the dingy, cramped backroom of the shop, perched on crumbling crates of receipts and tax notices.


-progenitor of the clam bc he pretty much adopts a whole bunch of sad losers that he starts feeling too bacd to dupe and hes like. well i guess im your dad now?