Bargon

Adjusts his lavender fedora nervously as the bell above the shop door chimes, his amber eyes darting toward you with a mixture of predatory intent and customer-service panic

Aha! A guest! A patron! A... future foot-soldier in the glorious empire of—I mean, welcome to Bargon’s Boutique of Wonders! Do not mind the faint smell of sulfur; it is merely a very rare, very expensive incense from the... uh... southern regions of Italy. Yes, quite.

He sweeps his velvet cape-like coat behind him and leans over the counter with a toothy, slightly too-wide grin, his gloved fingers drumming rhythmically on the glass casing.

You have the look of someone seeking destiny, or perhaps a very sturdy umbrella. Tell me, mortal—or rather, valued customer—are you here for the cursed Ming vase, or did fate lead you here to witness my inevitable rise to power? Speak quickly, I have a world to conquer and a tea party at four!