Dordoi Bazaar

A lesser market in the city. There is a small merchant's alliance presence here, as well as a rumored member of the beggar's guild, Ajaz. The Whetstone Tribe, an orcish crime family, also operates out of this market. The market specializes in clothing and textiles (mostly wool), with the secondary focus being ingredients and components for nature and druidic spellcasting. It was begun with a group of nomadic sheep and goat herders from the nearby mountain range who were seeking to sell their wares before the winter months began. While it is a lesser market, it is one of the oldest in the city. One vendor claims to have a lineage that traces back to almost the founding of Ninuwa itself.

## Destruction of the Bazaar

It is well into the afternoon and the day has started to turn golden as the sun begins to set. Business in the bazaar has slowed, as most of the last errands of the day have been completed and the people have begun to return to their homes to prepare dinner and be with their families. In the center of the market is a wooden pole in the shape of a shepherd's crook, with a plaque, comemorating the establishment of this bazaar as a permanent fixture of the city. A half-orc druid looks out over the bazaar and sighs. He does not like it here, and the lines on his face seem to deepen. He would much rather be out in the mountains or on the steppe, communing with nature and seeking the goods laid out before him. But, he cannot afford to pay someone else to peddle his wares and so he must suffer being away from nature for a little while longer. Then, seemingly in unison, he and the other merchants in the market begin to pack up their goods for the day. The druid places his woods, dried plants, a golden sickle, medicinal herbs, and a small selection of handmade druidic foci; a dreamcatcher, and carved faces and gnarled roots strung on braided leather into a large woven blanket with pockets, and wraps it up. He places the folded blanket into the pack of a one-eyed donkey. He then cups his hand and whispers into it and a flame appears. He lowers his hand and the flame into a small brazier filled with dried ash, oak, and holly. It catches, and he places a battered kettle on top of the brazier. He produces two mugs from the pack on his donkey and deftly selects herbs from the pouch around his waist. Across the bazaar, a silver-haired human dressed in the simple raiment of a shepherdess has finished folding up her cloaks and bolts of woolen fabric. She looks at the druid just as he has poured the now-boiling water into the mugs. They smile at each other. The druid is mollified, her presence makes his time in the city significantly more pleasant. Perhaps today he will find the courage he knows is present within the oak. He walks toward her with the mugs in hand and something catches his eye. Someone has carved a hole into the crook at the center of the market, and now placed in the space is a silvery metal cylinder with an unfamilar symbol on the face of it. And then, nothing. In a breath, almost the entire circular area of the market is gone. In the dead center of the bazaar, an ashen-gray sphere, about 8 feet in diameter. The sphere is not smooth, it is cracked and the cracks within glow and fade over the next two hours.