Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals

The Collar of Conviction

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"Welcome," Zorko intoned, his voice drifting through the sea mist like a spell lost in time, "to the edge of civilization, and possibly taste."

He stood atop a smooth driftwood altar half-submerged in tide foam, robes cinched against the wind, his entire form concealed beneath crimson fabric. Only his glowing blue eyes pierced the hood’s deep shadow, twin beacons of mystic intensity.

Behind him: the coastal vault of Kelpie’s Bay, a ruinous structure once devoted to maritime rites, now converted into an open-air artifact depot. Storm lanterns flickered over rusted anchors and coral-crusted reliquaries. Seagulls screamed overhead. One may have been cursed.

"Here among the surf and silverweed," Zorko continued, "we prepare to encounter a guest whose legend is written not in ink, but in missing ledgers. A pirate, a performer, an Empress by trade and enchantress by talent."

The orb swung to the crest of the bluff.

A red hat appeared.

Velvets. Gold. Sapphires. Swagger.

The silhouette paused just long enough for dramatic effect.

"Make way for Empress Carly, Commander of the Crimson Armada!" a voice announced, possibly a herald, possibly a conjured illusion.

She descended like theater incarnate, flanked by a brilliantly feathered parrot on one shoulder and a silent, impeccably polished man in red.

Zorko extended a hand. "Empress Carly of the Crimson Armada. Pirate queen. Sovereign of eight sea captains. Owner of many hats."

She gave a half-bow that somehow felt like a curtsy, a challenge, and a confession.

Zorko intoned with reverence, "Empress Carly, who rules the Crimson Armada not by decree, but by daring."

"Zorko of the Marsh," she replied. "Scholar of shine. Documenter of things best kept undocumented."

The orb zoomed. Her smile caught the light like a blade.

Zorko straightened. "And what item of questionable provenance have you brought for appraisal today?"

Carly raised a hand. The silent man beside her stepped forward.

He opened a velvet-lined case.

Inside: a round, dark glass bottle, its short neck lined in gold. Etched into the glass: a kelpie’s head in profile, eyes narrowed, teeth far too sharp for a beast of legend.

Zorko gasped. "Is that... what I think it is?"

Carly’s parrot squawked, "Kelpie’s Gold!" Then immediately preened.

She smiled. "An original bottling. Aged in cursed black oak, watered by stolen clouds, sweetened with vengeance."

Zorko took a reverent step forward. "And you wish to appraise it?"

She waved a hand. "Not just appraise, dear Zorko. I want it understood."

The orb hummed. The storm lanterns flared. Somewhere in the ruins, a rusted chain snapped loose.

Zorko clapped his hands. "Then let us begin."

"Let us first observe the vessel," Zorko said, crouching with theatrical reverence beside the open case. "Not merely a bottle, but a casklet of chaos, designed to contain a history as dark as its contents."

He traced a fingertip along the etched kelpie head. "Note the snarl. The artistic implication is one of disdain—for moderation, for legality, perhaps for sobriety."

Carly chuckled, brushing invisible dust from her velvet lapel. "The first dozen bottles exploded during transport. We took that as a sign of quality."

Behind her, the polished man, Q, remained silent, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ruined vault. He stopped briefly on a locked shelf labeled Glassbound Familiars.

The parrot on Carly's shoulder tilted its head, watching the orb.

"This is not a drink," Zorko continued. "This is an emotion. A liquid intent. Possibly an endangered philosophy."

Carly leaned forward. "Aged thirty-three years in enchanted black oak from the Emerald Forest. Trees no longer permitted to exist, but I keep a few groves myself."

Zorko glanced up. "Grown by consent, or by cunning?"

"What's the difference when the result tastes like legend?"

The orb gave a polite, almost skeptical chirp.

Zorko uncorked the bottle with a flourish that ended in a tiny pop. A thin plume of aromatic mist escaped, warm, spicy, floral, with a final note of something best described as regretful cinnamon.

Zorko sniffed.

He shivered. "That smells like a memory I haven't earned."

Carly extended a crystal thimble, which Zorko filled with two drops and handed back like it was a sacred rite.

She sipped. She sighed. She grinned. "Still potent. Still persuasive."

The parrot flapped down and pecked lightly at the rim of the case. Then it leapt to Zorko’s shoulder and stared him in the eye.

"Oh," he said, frozen. "This one has opinions."

Carly petted the bird without breaking eye contact. "That’s Mineral. She has excellent taste."

Zorko blinked. "Wait. Mineral is—"

Mineral shifted.

In an instant, the parrot was gone. A sleek orange cat sat where she’d landed, tail twitching, eyes luminous.

Zorko gasped. "A polymorphic familiar!"

"She prefers 'resourceful,'" Carly corrected.

Mineral meowed once, then padded toward the shelves at the vault’s edge, toward a specific locked cabinet.

Zorko rose slowly, turning toward the orb. "Viewers... the plot thickens. And so, apparently, does the cat."

Zorko cleared his throat. He straightened. He began to pace.

"Let us examine the magic," he announced. "The enchantment entwined within this bottle’s very bones."

He held the rum bottle aloft, his phoenix feather held parallel to its curve, like a sommelier in an arcane duel.

"Observe, viewers, the glimmer behind the glass. That shimmer is no mere refracted light. It is aged essence. A vibration of memory, trapped. Possibly sapient."

He sniffed again. "Hmm. Hints of kelp. A whisper of thunder. And something else… something elusive… the olfactory echo of... compromise?"

Carly tilted her head. "You’re smelling my perfume."

"Ah," Zorko said gravely. "Then the blend is powerful indeed."

He set the bottle down and began drawing an appraisal glyph in the sand with the feather, each line glowing softly.

As he drew, Mineral (now cat-shaped) delicately hopped onto the nearest crate and flicked her tail at a lantern, which dimmed.

Q, motionless and ever-watching, made a subtle note on a card he did not remove from any visible pocket.

The glyph pulsed.

Zorko continued. "This rum has been aged not just in barrel but in narrative. Every year has left its taste, its tantrum. Even the label lies with authority."

He tapped the gold-rimmed neck. "Pure 24-karat. Or so they claim. But if I’m correct..." He held the bottle to the light. "Ah ha! Yes. It contains a binding ring. A submerged loop of silver-touched kelpie hair."

Carly’s smile thinned.

"Used," Zorko declared, "to channel marine loyalty spells. This bottle is not merely rare. It is relational. If gifted, the drinker becomes temporarily attuned to the desires of the giver."

He paused.

"...Which would explain why I now desperately want to do your taxes."

Mineral purred loudly. Q coughed once.

Zorko stumbled backward, brushing his robes as if to clear the suggestion from his aura.

"Ahem. The enchantment is subtle. Suggestive. And thoroughly disreputable."

He turned dramatically to the orb. "This is not just a pirate’s trophy. This is a social contract in liquid form."

The glyph flared. A breeze kicked up. The orb wobbled.

From behind him, Mineral padded softly into view again… but now she was neither cat nor bird.

She shimmered.

And began to shift again.

Mineral’s form blurred between feline grace and avian posture, her silhouette warping like heat over pavement. Before Zorko could speculate, a low hum surged from the vault’s shadows.

A curl of parchment-colored smoke peeled out from beneath a sealed trunk, spiraled once around a lantern, then collapsed inwards, popping with a dry clap.

Uvlius of the Belfry stepped through the fading smoke like he had somewhere better to be, and this wasn’t it.

His robes were the color of overdue books. His expression was carved from granite boredom.

Zorko did not turn. "I summoned you with the seal of arcane consultation," he said, eyes fixed on Mineral’s latest geometric transition. "This artifact is... evasive."

Uvlius didn’t blink. "That’s not an artifact."

Zorko finally turned. "I beg your—"

Uvlius pointed with one gloved finger at the bottle. "That is a leash."

Carly arched a brow. "A leash? Oh darling, if I wanted a leash, I wouldn’t have bedazzled it."

Uvlius ignored her. "Crafted by the siphon lords of the southern kelp courts. It bonds the will of sea beasts, and possibly sea fairies, to the bearer."

Zorko’s hood tilted slowly. "So you’re saying it’s enchanted?"

"I'm saying," Uvlius said flatly, "it's a bribe in bottle form. You’ve probably imprinted on her already."

Zorko gasped. "She made me want to balance ledgers!"

Uvlius stepped past the bottle and glanced once toward Mineral, now halfway through a shift back into a parrot. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

His eyes then moved to Q, who, to his credit, did not blink.

"You’re casing the vault," Uvlius said, matter-of-fact. "Subtle. But not subtle enough."

Carly smiled with dazzling indifference. "Is this how all consultations go, or are we just lucky?"

Uvlius turned to Zorko. "Check the third cabinet. Something’s missing."

Zorko took a step, then paused. "Which... which one is the third again?"

Uvlius vanished in a soft hiss of smoke and disapproval.

Final Appraisal Zorko stood frozen for a long breath. Then turned slowly to the orb. "I may have been compromised."

Mineral, now fully parrot again, gave a small chirp. From somewhere in the depths of her feathers, something sparkled.

Zorko cleared his throat. "Viewers... we proceed to final appraisal."

He stood beside the velvet-lined case, the bottle of Kelpie’s Gold now resealed and resting peacefully, as if it hadn’t almost seduced him into small-business finance.

Carly and Q waited at the vault’s archway, their silhouettes framed by sea mist and high tide. Mineral perched again on Carly’s shoulder, feathers fluffed, gaze unblinking.

Zorko addressed the orb.

"Today, we encountered not an object, but a performance. A dance of intent, sugar, and suggestion. A bottle cloaked in myth. A collar by any other name."

He turned to Carly. "You brought something of power. You offered a story. You even shared a taste."

Carly gave a gracious bow. "I’m generous when it suits me."

Zorko gestured toward the bottle. "Its enchantment is real. Subtle. Possibly weaponized. This rum is not just imbibed. It decides. It encourages the drinker to act, to yield, to... assist in mild embezzlement."

Q blinked once. Mineral preened.

Zorko continued. "Its ingredients speak of ancient oaths. Sea fairy politics. Oak trees that should not exist and bottles that absolutely should not sparkle when petted."

He reached into his robe and retrieved a scroll, upon which he wrote in glowing script.

"Final appraisal: ten thousand gleaming truths in emotional persuasion, seventeen gold in black market resale, and one certified moment of magical influence."

He held the scroll aloft. "One bottle of Kelpie’s Gold: valued at ten thousand gleaming truths, six acts of deception, and one certified moment of magical influence."

The orb pinged. Carly clapped politely.

Mineral squawked once and dropped something shiny near Zorko’s foot. It rolled. A ring? A lens? A pin?

Zorko did not pick it up.

Carly turned to leave, voice light. "Thank you for the hospitality. And the paperwork."

Q followed in perfect step. Mineral turned to look back once, her feathers catching the last sliver of light.

Zorko watched them vanish into the salt wind.

Then he turned to the orb.

"This concludes our episode. Remember, dear viewers: not all treasures glitter, and some... come with a drink order and a loophole."

He bowed low, robes curling like seafoam.

Behind him, the third cabinet clicked shut on its own.

Entered by: 0x6424…79B4