Inside the shop, a white mouse is perched on a tall stool near the entrance. She's focused on an object she's holding in her hands, turning it over and examining it carefully. After a few minutes, she twitches her whiskers and starts rubbing at it with something held in her hand.

The beating of heavy wings outside competes with the buzz of the Bazaar, and a gravelly, corvid voice calls out, "Ho there, Wahldramm … steady, boy!" A shrill screech echoes over the rooftops, and the wingbeats stop. Clattering and rattling can be heard from the upper landing.

The Skeek starts and squeaks at the noise from the rooftop. "OH!" She jumps from her stool and zips to the back of the store, taking the steps of the spiral staircase two at a time. She goes up two flights before reaching the rooftop, and peeks out cautiously. "Are you all right, sir?" she inquires anxiously. "I'm not sure if the roof's quite done yet." Bits of equipment and a couple of tools are strewn across the top, lending weight to her assertion.

The rooftop offers a scenic vantage point of the street and its crumbling buildings, consisting of what would have been the floor of a fourth-story level to the structure, supplemented with thatch spread over a wooden framework to cover what isn't covered by floorboards. Immediately next to the tower is another building that is crowded so closely to it as to be apparently joined, and the rest of the street seems similarly squeezed together, alleyways being the exception rather than the rule.

A stone bridge spans from the second level of the tower across the street to yet another ruined building, and the walkways continue at the second-story level, zigzagging from building to building and occasionally trading across the street here and there.

"Ahoy there! Ah, good, summan's 'ome!" The Skeek is greeted by the sight of a rakhtor of white and slate blue-grey, in a peregrine pattern, perched carefully across a support beam, its head quirking this way and that in the curious manner of avians. Perched on him is another bird, a Korv dwarfed by the rakhtor, unloading canvas duffels of clangy-sounding cargo. "Yer just in time, missie!" rasps the Korv, as he dumps a third duffel off, and works at dismounting. "Sorry 'bout the thatch, but that thar bag's sinkin' fast."

The white-furred mouse eases the trap door fully open and emerges onto the rooftop, dusting off her skirt habitually as she does so. She blinks as the Korv drops bags onto her rooftop. "That's okay," she says automatically, "We're going to rip it up and replace it with slate tiling anyway." She hurries forward. "Can I help you with one of those?" she inquires politely, bending to pick up one of the duffels.

A cool breeze wafts across the rooftops, stirring some wind chimes hanging from a pole on a "rooftop store" across the street, where an Eeee with garishly dyed fur waits for winged customers. The bat spots the activity across the street at the broken tower, and waves a wing (much easier to see at a distance than a hand, though as brightly colored as he is … ) "Hullo there! Good day, Kia!"

The Korv slides down the rakhtor's side, feeling around for the rooftop with his foot. "Lean a lil' down farther … no, farther … ahh … think that's got it. Mph!" He dusts at his shipman's clothing rather ineffectually, and jingles cheerfully after his baggage. "Oh, don'ts want ye ta troubles yerself, missus! Yer th' tinker, ain'tcha? Ye'll get sick o' me junk soon enough widdout 'avin' ta hauls it 'round likes a Drokar."

Kia stops before picking up the bag. "Are you sure, sir?" she asks again. "I'm used to hauling junk about – it's my job," she adds cheerfully, with a wink. "I'm the tinker, yes – my name's Kia. Welcome to my shop!" She then turns to return Astaro's wave, standing on tip-toes and moving her whole arm through the air in an effort to be conspicuous. "G'dday, Astaro!" she calls back to him affectionately.

The bat across the street nods and smiles, then returns to arranging his wares on the rooftop.

The Korv tilts his head, peering at the mouse as he drags (with some effort) a couple of the duffels along. One of them has developed a hole, leaking bits of glass, chitin, a spring or screw here or there, or polished pieces of wood. "Well, iffen ye feels up to it! Can ye gets thi – … oop, belay that, better get thattun 'stead, it's tearin' a lil'."

Nodding quickly, the mouse rushes to the Korv's assistance. She wraps both arms about the leaking duffel to lift it, then wiggles nimbly about to catch the hem of her long, loose skirt and lift it enough to catch the leaking materials. "We'll just carry this down to the third floor, then, sir?" She half-waddles with her burden towards the trap door, peering at the bag curiously. "What have you got in them?"

"Aye, that'll do, Miss Kia. An' the name's Kensington! Pleasure t'meets ye!" He lugs the sacks along, both clinking, and clunking with each step they have to be dropped down. "Oh, odds 'n' ends. I be a shipman from Chronotopia, an' the Chronotopian love o' gadgets 'n' gewgaws don't be mixin' wit' shippin', I be findin'. First, ye 'ad this 'ere Babelite merchantman what tried t'yank out boardin' moorin's by pullin' away, and then all me shelves dump ever'thin' all o'er th' cabin… Then this 'ere spyglass rolls off th' chartin' table, an' … " He prattles on like that during the descent down the stairs.

The third floor is cluttered with what might generously be described as "stuff." A couple of sofas are propped up on their sides and braced against the wall, and several long tables are covered by bits and pieces of crockery, kitchen utensils, and knickknacks. Battered crates stacked floor to ceiling conceal even more objects. In one corner near the stairs, a massive stack of roofing slates has been piled. "Oh my," Kia says as the Korv relates his tale.

Surprisingly, the Skeek manages to maneuver her burden down the spiral staircase without too much difficulty, although she's panting by the time she achieves the third floor landing. She braces the canvas container against the edge of one long wooden table, and uses her freed arm to sweep clear enough space to set it down on, very gently … not that her care will probably matter now. She unties the top of the bag, and looks into it. "Oh dear."

Kensington glances around this way and that at the "work in progress". "… with the screamin' an' the hollerin', ye thought they'd sweep it up sooner! An' now me spyglass be worthless, less I wanna see five of everythin' directly to me right, an' I be needin' at least five beers before that 'appens. Eh, where ye wants I should drop me gear off, missus?"

Chitin and metal bits of junk spill out of the bag. Somehow, a few broken pottery shards have managed to get into the bag, and it's uncertain whether enough could be in there to conceivably piece together a whole pot.

There are several rusty iron bolts, chitin spikes and ironwood pegs and tacks. There are braces and buckles. And lots of gears and springs.

It looks like there's a battered Chronotopian wind-up toy Korv that is missing a wing. And there's a clock-like device – clock-like, save for that it doesn't sport any sort of face, just a bunch of marks and an arrow hand splayed somewhere between those on each end.

"Mmm?" The mouse looks away from the bag she's got before her, back to her visitor. "I'm pleased to meet you, sir. Do you think you could set it down by the stairs for now? Over in that clear spot opposite the roofing tiles. I'm sorry the place is such a mess. I need more space already, I'm afraid, and I only just opened the shop." She smiles at the Korv, twitching her whiskers.

More looking through the bag reveals a music box with a lid knocked off its broken hinges, and several glass lenses – some cracked, some scuffed, some just in need of some cleaning – and a spyglass case and fittings that they apparently belong to, though at a quick count it appears that there are more lenses than needed for a single spyscope. There are also a few crossbows that look perfectly fine, save for a missing bowstring or a worn catch or a wobbly crank handle.

Kensington drags the remaining bags to the spot indicated, laying them upright with some painful-sounding crunches and sproings from inside them. "Thank ye! An' please, jes' Kensington'll do. So yer new 'ere, eh?"

Returning her attention to the bag, Kia frowns thoughtfully at its contents. She leaves it for a moment to take all the stuff off the table she's at and pile it onto another, then starts taking items from the canvas duffel and sorting them out along the length of the table, organizing the springs, pieces of crockery, splinters of chitin, and other small pieces according to size. The larger, identifiable objects she places reverently on their own section of the table, after taking a few moments to study each one, an absent smile forms on her face.

Downstairs, the front door bangs open, setting several Dromodon-bells clanging, as another customer comes in, this time through the street-level entrance. "Hellllooooo!" says the short, foppish-looking vulpine … well, short compared to most people. He's actually a little taller than the proprietor of the store, measuring at about four feet tall, visually gauging the height of his ears compared to the shelves just inside the doorway, as seen by way of an angled mirror that affords a view of the storefront.

"Mph?" She looks up from her reverie to smile again at Kensington. "Well, no, I'm not precisely new here. My mother works at a coffee shop around the corner. But we didn't get title to this building until several months ago, and it was just this week that it's been fixed up enough to open and call a shop." At the sound from below, she squeaks. "Would you excuse me for a moment?"

"Aye!" The Korv bobs his head, then turns to attend to the bags he's dragged in, rummaging around in it for things worth salvaging.

With a swish of her tail, Kia dashes down the staircase. Her welcoming smile brightens another notch as she sees her visitor. "G'd day," she greets the fox warmly.

The foppish fox snatches his hands back abruptly from where he'd been reaching to fiddle with a thingamajig hanging on the wall, and grins broadly. "Why, hello, m'lady!" He takes off his hat, and makes an exaggerated bow, sweeping his hat to the side, just coming within a hair's breadth of knocking several things off of every shelf and peg within reach.

There's a bag slung over the fox's shoulder, in addition to his ever-present lute. Peeking out of the bag is a big brass horn, and what looks like a few piccolos.

The mouse is still holding the last object she'd taken from the bag, the music box without a lid. A grin twitches on her lips as the fop makes his elaborate gesture. "How are you this day, Mr. Fox?" she says, a teasing note on the last word. "Come to get your lute fixed?"

"Oh, no no no! I've never ever had to get my lute fixed," the fox says, "… just looked at a few times. No, I have come to have this looked at." He makes a show of grunting and huffing and making it very clear that what he's carrying is very heavy, and sets the bag upon a table with a half-barrel for a base. "I want to get this fixed! It's a gargle-blotzer."

The bizarre instrument looks like a pan with several keys on it, some sort of an air-filled leather diaphragm, and several horns and pipes sticking out from it. Remotely like a bagpipe, only really ugly and more complicated.

The Korv jingles over, though it's with a somewhat round-about route, as he peers through a broken spyglass. Lowering it, he blinks a few times, momentarily disoriented, before spotting the fox. "Well, iffen it ain't th' tavern howler!" He cocks his head to eye the contraption warily.

The fox boasts, "I'm going to be playing at a ribbon-cutting ceremony in Sylvania. And someone threw this at – er, gave this to me, so I thought I'd see if I could get it fixed up for the performance!"

"Oh, of course. A gargle-blotzer." She nods sagely and makes a great show of studying the instrument. "All right," she says after a few minutes of studying and poking at it gingerly. "What's it supposed to do that it doesn't do now?"

The brass horn is a bit beat up, and has a lot of old etching on it. Once upon a time, this instrument would have been a thing of the nobility, a luxury item. "Well … it's not terribly aerodynamic, I know that much. Uhm … " The fox ponders. "I think you blow in here." He puts his mouth on one of the piccolo-looking things and starts puffing. A raspberry sound emits from the leather diaphragm.

Kensington's brow knits together at the sound, and his short crest pops up for a second.

When the avian comes down the stairs, Kia looks to him and smiles again. "Mr. Fox," she says graciously, "This is Kensington. He's brought me some things to fix, too," She winces at the bleat from the instrument. "And Kensington, this is Mr. Fox. Or at least I call him that. Others know him by various … um … names." She looks mischievous.

The foppish fox takes off his hat. "Pleased to meet you, Mister Firseed!" he says cheerily, as he makes a wide sweep with his hat, tickling the Korv's beak with his feather plume.

"Oh, I knows 'im, Miss Kia," caws the Korv, grinning around his beak. He reaches out to nudge at the fox with a wing. "I dunno if she kin fix yer singin' voi-huh … wuhhh … " The membranes around the Korv's nostrils flare out for a moment at the plume's tickling.

Returning her attention to the fop, she studies the tubes. "Try this one," she suggests, pointing to a different tube. The one she indicates has a reed at the top, like the mouthpiece on a pipe, as opposed to the several others, which have rounded tops.

"Oh! Thank you!" says the fox, and he tries the new tube. This time, the brass horn lets out a "blat" noise and a squeak, in addition to the raspberry from the diaphragm.

Twitching her whiskers again, Kia watches the movement of the diaphragm when the fox blows on the mouthpiece. She makes a faint tsking noise. "This is a high-maintenance instrument, Mr. Fox. Whomever th – gave it to you wasn't taking care of it at all, I think."

Kensington grabs his beak with his wingclaws, making a "Kthbtch!" sort of repressed sneeze. His neck feathers pop out – whether at the sneeze or the noise, it's anyone's guess.

"Are you all right, Kensington?" the mouse asks, turning about at the sneeze.

The corsair sniffs, rubbing at the top of his beak. "Quite all rights, ma'am. I'd fret 'bout our ears more." Still, he looks on curiously at the bits of bagpipe the mouse points out.

The fox hmms. "Well, I'm fairly sure she wasn't taking care of it… " He shrugs. "Is it a total loss?"

Kia looks relieved. "That's good to hear." Addressing the fop again, she says, "The leather bag has to be kept supple. You need to oil it regularly to keep it in working order. This one's all cracked and needs to be re-sealed; it would take a long time to reclaim it. I've got a similar piece in another instrument upstairs, though, so I could probably replace it." She frowns at the fox thoughtfully. "But even if I did, you'd have to be sure to keep the new one oiled and exercise it, or it'll just crack again."

The fox ponders this. "That'd be a lot of work, wouldn't it?"

The mouse nods solemnly. "It would be. You need to be dedicated to this kind of instrument to keep it in working order."

The fox ponders this some more, then says, "Oh well! You can keep it then." He smiles. "I'll be fine with my lute." He swings his lute around from off his back, and strums it a few times.

Kia smiles at the fox for a moment, saying, "I thought you'd be happier with your lute… "

"Say," says the fox. "Would you like to hear a new song?"

Kensington's eyes widen, and he shakes his head at Kia very rapidly.

Kia's smile vanishes at the mention of a song. "Absolutely not." Her directive is delivered with the tone of a school teacher commanding a wayward student, and matched by a stern look.

The fox's ears suddenly droop, and he gives Kia the saddest, puppy-doggish eyes he can. "But … it was a song about your shop … " He rubs a toe-tip on the floor. "… I thought maybe it could bring some customers… "

The white mouse shows the fox a brilliant smile as he looks downcast. "Now, now, Mr. Fox, you know the rules. You're welcome to play anytime, but no singing. It draws the gremlins in to listen – they so enjoy it! And you know what that does to all my goods." She leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek, resting one hand on his shoulder for a moment in consolation.

The fox sighs loudly and nearly swoons right there, but shakes his head before he stumbles. "Oh … well … okay … if you say so. Well, I guess that's all for me. I'll be going now! Good bye!"

And then the fox twirls about with a swish of his overly fluffy red tail, and bounds for the front door.

Kia waves cheerfully after him. "Thank you for the gargle-bloster, Mr. Fox. Take care!"

The corsair's crest smoothes back down in relief. "Ye've got a gift, girl!"

The fox waves to Kia, then closes the door behind him, clanging the bells on the door.

Kensington adds, "Anna don'ts mean th' gurgle-blighter!"

She casts a guilty, mischievous look at the Korv. "phew!" she whispers to him, winking.

There's a sound of scuffling outside, like someone moving a wooden crate over cobbles, then clambering on top. Then, there's the sound of a chord being played on a lute.

"Oh dear!" exclaims the Skeek. She darts to the door, swings it open, and squeaks, "NO! You're still much too close!"

The fox looks as if he's about to burst into song, but instead just bursts into a "YELP!" as he topples backward off of the crate, and crashes into a pile of debris and junk patiently waiting outside the front door. "Whine!"

The mouse eeks at the plaintive complaint, and helps the fox to his feet. "There, there now, dear. The gremlins knew you were about to sing and they're already sabotaging things as they gather! You really should be more careful," she admonishes.

The fox says, "Well, since you're here, would you like to hear my song outside the shop? Puh-leeeeeeze?"

The fox gets on his knees, clasping his hands together and putting on his puppy-dog eyes again.

Kensington's shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter, his tail-feathers fanned broadly. "Oh, ye poor dear."

The fox adds, "I could add a part praising the ingenuity of Chronotopian Korvs!"

For a moment, the mouse looks wistful and tempted, then she glances back to her store. "No, my friend. I have too many fragile pieces inside. We'll need to be much farther away, and I've got a customer now, so I'm afraid it will just have to wait." She pats the fox's cheek in sympathy. "Do take care of yourself, all right? I'd best get back to Kensington – farewell!" With that and a cheery wave, she heads back inside.

A pitiful whine emits from the fox … and then he trundles off from the door. He can barely be heard to be saying "Hmmmmm," to himself as the door closes.

A shiver racks her slight frame, and she shakes her head. She fishes some objects out from behind the counter and hands two of them to Kensington. "Just in case. Let's go back upstairs, shall we?" The objects prove to be large cotton balls.

The Korv gathers his composure, though he's still grinning, and follows along.

As she trips lightly up the steps, Kia asks the avian, "Now, what is it exactly that you'd like me to do with those odds and ends you brought me?"

Kensington fingers the objects in his wingclaws, glancing down at them."Heh, yer prepared fer everythin'."

At his comment, Kia smiles and winks. "It's a junk shop. I've got some of absolutely everything, in one condition or another."