“The Red Wagon General Store occupies a narrow two-story timber building at the edge of the market road. Its faded red wagon-wheel sign creaks above the entrance, and nearly every exterior beam bears old repair marks from years of storms, caravan accidents, and hurried expansions. Inside, the shop smells of cedar, lamp oil, dried herbs, leather, and fresh sawdust. Shelves climb to the ceiling, holding cookware, rope, tools, preserved food, blankets, travel gear, weapons, and a modest selection of adventuring supplies. A brass rail runs around the counter, displaying cheap knives, tin cups, chalk, candles, and lucky charms. A trapdoor behind the counter leads to a cramped storeroom packed with crates and grain sacks. Narrow stairs climb to the owner's sleeping loft. Orla Venn is a broad-shouldered human woman in her early fifties with iron-gray hair braided down her back, a missing left canine tooth, and sharp hazel eyes that seem to measure the weight and usefulness of everything in the room. She wears a leather apron covered in pockets and keeps a hand axe beneath the counter. Orla is friendly toward honest customers, suspicious of anyone who asks too many questions about locks or cellar doors, and exceptionally good at remembering faces. Her apprentice, Pell, is a nervous sixteen-year-old who handles inventory and tends the shop's aging but loyal mastiff, Bristle. Orla offers small discounts to caravan guards, local farmers, and adventurers who bring back useful news about road conditions or nearby monsters.”