It was the end of another dull day. You trudge home tiredly while thinking about how to fill the few free hours you have left this evening. You sullenly watch others on the street mull about, wondering if they all feel the same, when something strange catches your eye.
You see a elderly woman dressed as if she's just come from a renaissance faire or some kind of cosplay convention step out of an alleyway. She gets a few odd looks and certainly stands out in her archaic and frilly clothing as she hurries down the street, but what struck you more is that you walk this street almost everyday, and you could have sworn that alley wasn't always there. Confused, you decide to take a closer look.
You walk over and go into the alley to poke around. It's poorly lit and musty, but surprisingly free of refuse or graffiti. To your bewilderment, tucked in between two taller buildings is a squat, brick shop. It boasts no embellishments besides an old, ornately carved door and a wooden sign that read “Melchior's Magical Artifacts and Accoutrements,” with a smaller “Open” hanging in the window of the door. You have nothing better to do this evening, so you decide to take a look inside.
Entering the shop, you're greeted with a large open room, filled wall to wall with shelves. A bunch of seemingly random objects are strewn haphazardly across each of them. In the corner, a balding, portly man in deep purple robes that remind you of academic regalia leans on a counter, looking somewhat bored. However, when he sees you, his eyes light up.
“Ah! A new face. I haven't had one of those in quite some time! I'm Mel, and welcome to my shop. Feel free to look around. Prices are negotiable, but everything should be labeled with a general ballpark figure. Please limit any magic to low level identify or scry spells at most, as some of the merchandise is sensitive to errant forces. If you have any questions, I'll be over here.”
You actually had several, but feeling awkwardly out of place, you decide to look around to see if you can get any understanding of what kind of strange role play shop this is. Unfortunately, perusing the shelves didn't help, as they seemed to be filled with a few antiques and decorations, but mostly a bunch of junk. What's more, the price tags on them made no sense. A wall clock was being sold for “8 Caspian Focus Crystals,” a plain wooden box for “100 grams of potion-grade fairy dust,” and a simple gold chain for “One alch. vial of condensed moonlight.” The few that you found tagged with currencies you recognized somehow made even less sense, asking for several years or even lifetimes worth of cash.
Mel seems to notice your concerned expression and asks “What's wrong, don't like what you see?”
“Oh no, sorry, it's not that,” you answer quickly. “I'm just a little confused by the pricing. Or really... all of it I guess.”
Mel suddenly gets a knowing look in his eye. “Ah, that's why I haven't seen you before. You're not magic-folk, are you? That damned old bat Esmeralda must have messed up the Obfuscator on her way out again. I keep telling her... Well, no matter we all have to get our start somewhere. Come here, I may have a few things that are more your speed.”
He goes behind the counter and lifts up a box, setting it on top for you to look inside. The box's contents are as eclectic as the shelves, only dustier. Mel watches you in anticipation, so against your better wishes, you oblige him and rummage through it. You pull out a few more random items – a creepy doll, a pair of glasses with no lenses, an old radio – while Mel continues chatting.
“Most of this stuff doesn't sell too great. They typically house bounded spirits or channel some other being's powers through them instead of doing things the proper way. If it's not your power, you don't have the same level of control, and with magic, control is the name of the game. So they collect dust. Also, with how fast the artifact laws have been changing the last few decades, I can't legally hold onto some of those much longer. And with the way they've been going with the blasted disposal regulations, I tell ya, it's like they're trying to end me.”
As he prattles on, something finally intrigues you. From the bottom of the box, you pull out what seems to be an elegant, old pen. Its base is decorated somewhat like a nice silver fountain pen, but where the nib would be, it has an opening where it grasps a very old, yet still sharp graphite pencil. Similarly, it houses a white pencil eraser just underneath its silver pocket clip at the base.
“Ah, that one,” Mel says, seeing that the pencil has caught your eye. “Just one moment.”
Mel reaches into his robes and pulls out a large binder. He rifles through its laminated pages until he spots what he was looking for.
“Aha! Item J-493, pencil of unknown origin. Let's see, channels energy of unspecified source, believed to be minor chaos or trickster spirit... Effects largely untested... Needs specialist review. So, standard stuff for the junk box. Like I said, they don't sell well, so I don't bother dumping too much time or resources into having them tested and Identified. Some intrepid acolyte at the academy probably bound an imp to it to take notes for him or some such. Then one way or another, it got packed away in a warehouse I bought out and ended up in my junk drawer. That's how these things typically go. So, you interested?”
You still aren't sure what to think about all of this magic talk, but the pencil is definitely well made. It could work either on your desk or on display at your home, and if it's real silver, it may even be worth something as an antique.
“Maybe, how much?” you ask.
Mel rubs his chin, “Eh, I really need to get rid of this stuff, and there's a certain amount of risk to testing these yourself. Risk that I'm not responsible for, by the way. You'll have to sign on that later. How about this: you give me twenty bucks and don't tell anyone I sold something to the magically-uninitiated, and it's all yours. Sound good?”
“You got a deal,” you say.
Mel fills out a receipt with some fine print that you skim over before signing and handing over the cash. Mel carefully places the pencil into a small box of similar size, which he hands to you along with a copy of your receipt as he ushers you through the door.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” he says as you step outside. You thank him as well and head back to the mouth of the alley. As you step out of it, a cold wind hits you from behind. You turn back in surprise, only to see the two buildings that bordered the alleyway just moments before are now pressed together as if they were built sharing a wall. You stare for a few seconds in astonishment. No one else around seems to have noticed anything, though you do get an odd glance from a passerby as you look around wildly. You decide it would be easier to think over everything that happened at home, so you continue on your way, new pencil in tow.
--------------------
Once you get home, you sit down on your couch to think over whether you believe this whole magic thing. You pull the pencil out of its box to examine it, turning it over in your fingers. You definitely can't explain what exactly happened with the alley and the shop, and you hold proof in your hands that you didn't just dream it all. Lost in thought, you accidentally fumble the pencil, dropping it to the ground where it rolls under your couch.
You curse, hoping you haven't already damaged he thing, and you squat down to try to fish it out. The couch sits low to the ground, so you can't get your arm under very far, but you manage to just get a fingertip on the eraser of the pencil. However, every time you try to grab it, it's oddly slippery, and your fingertip just slides off the edge. You keep trying several times to find some purchase on it to no avail, as the eraser keeps sliding off your finger. You must have only managed to push it deeper, as you're no longer even able to reach your finger to it.
Frustrated, you grab the couch with your right hand, straining to lift it slightly. It's just enough to reach a couple more inches, and you manage to grab the pencil firmly around the metal. You quickly look it over for scratches or dings. To your relief, you find none, but what does catch your attention is what changed about your left hand.
You set the pencil down and hold your hand closer to your face to inspect it. To your alarm, the finger that was touching the pencil seconds ago is shorter. Halfway up the tip, the nail of your middle finger, as well as the flesh and bone around it, just ends. Where the last couple centimeters of finger should be, instead there is a flat stump of skin. You touch it cautiously, freaking out when you can feel your probing finger slide along the new flesh.
Thinking back through the series of events so far, you get a suspicion of what's going on. You pick the pencil back up to test, pressing the eraser against a corner of the box it came in. As you rub the eraser against the box, the box gives way underneath it. When you lift the pencil, the corner is gone, an empty triangle left in the space it connected.
So your allegedly magical pencil apparently erases things it shouldn't be able to. It is a pencil, though. Can it do the opposite as well? None of this is making sense to you anyway, and with how panicked you are, you'll try anything, so you flip the pencil around, point forward.
The moment you concentrate on the box, the world starts to ripple and shift in front of your eyes. The depth bleeds out of the room in front of you, and where you focus begins to appear flat, like you're looking at a picture. Once you have what you want to draw settled in your mind, the shifting stops, and all the parts of the box you want to change settle at a fixed, even distance. You move the pencil forward, not seeming to need to extend your arm as far as you should to reach the box, but it's at the perfect distance for comfortable drawing.
You move the pencil along the empty space of the box. It feels like you're pressing against paper, even though it should be passing through air, and the pencil leaves behind lines as you drag it. You quickly draw three lines that connect back at the point where the corner should be, somehow getting the perspective just right on your first try. Satisfied, you lift the pencil, and as you do, the world begins shifting and rippling back to three dimensions. While it does, you see detail fill out around the lines you've drawn, the textures and color of the box filling back in to the empty space just like you imagined. By the time everything is settled back to normal, the box looks just like it did when you were given it.
Relieved, you turn your attention back to your finger. Everything goes flat again, this time focused on your hand. Once again, the distance you have to move seems off, this time giving you more space to reach forward, even though you know you arm should be reaching through your hand by how far it's going. You've never been much of an artist, but somehow the lines to draw come naturally, and in moments, you've perfect sketched the image in your head of how your fingertip should look. You cease drawing, letting depth flow back into your vision, bringing lifelike detail to your drawing with it.
You run your thumb along your restored fingertip. You push it, pull it, rub it, run it along the couch, anything you can think of to test it, but it seems to be good as knew. You're reasonably convinced that whatever it does, the pencil can reverse, so you decide to take it a step further.
You focus on the same hand and begin to draw again. Only this time, you imagine a sixth finger extending off next to your pinky. Like before, the lines to draw come to you naturally and are just as easily drawn. As your vision returns to normal, you have a new, flesh-and-blood finger sticking out of your hand. You try to flex it experimentally, and it responds just as if you've always had it. You play with it a bit, picking things up around the room, and running the hand over different surfaces to feel the new sensations.
Deciding that there's only one final test before you're satisfied, you turn the eraser on the new digit. You don't really want to lose it yet, but you figure you can always draw it again. After a quick rub, the eraser has made short work of the finger, and your hand is completely back to normal.
You try to wrap your mind about the full implications of the magical object you've just acquired. You set the pencil down and just stare at it for awhile while new ideas of how to use it race through your head. Eventually...