Penfold's Discretionaries is a family owned boutique that has - quite coincidentally - existed for almost as long as the Assassin's Guild. It is on the surface an invitation-only tailor and purveyor of gentlemens and ladies' appurtenances, and absolutely not a dealer in tools of covert murder. Every purchase at Penfold's is accompanied by an elaborate etiquette; there is no customer and salesman, only emptor and factor, money is rarely discussed openly and never to the emptor's face. Following a sit-down consultation over coffee with a member of the Penfold family, an itemised quote slipped discreetly to their valet is about as crass as the business' owners - twin brothers Silace and Linus Penfold (both illusionists), along with their sister Ambrosia (a necromancer) - can stomach without scandal. Buying from Penfold’s is akin to being tailored for a new suit or a piece of bespoke jewellery, full of consultations, measurements and adjustments to guarantee the emptor's complete satisfaction. The actual intended function of the device being sold is only ever skirted around in euphemistic terms, with discussion focusing on the workmanship and aesthetics of each piece. The results, however, are always satisfactory in the extreme. If one is ever in need of a way to place a half-foot needle of envenomed stygian steel through the eye of someone who has offended you with pinpoint accuracy from across a crowded ballroom without it drawing comment, accept no substitute.
Roleplaying: The three Penfolds speak in elaborate circumlocutions when it comes to their wares, accompanied with subtle sexual innuendo - the only form of risqué behaviour they allow themselves. Their snobbery is extreme - these are the sort of people who would consider the Queen of England common for using French loan-words - but so is their susceptibility to flattery, especially from those they consider the right sort.
“Would sir care to note the precision craftsmanship clearly visible on the arms and tensile elements? Would it be improper to mention that this item could place a projectile through the eye of a needle at twenty paces? That is, were the gentleman so inclined - and one could not possibly comment on whether he would be, ah-ha. And if sir would roll his sleeve down, he would note how this particular piece makes no impact on the shape of his cuff. Hardly noticeable, in fact. It is important that accessories not ruin the lines of one's ensemble. Such a crass bulge is an insult to the tailor.”
Specialities: Clothing, jewellery & light weapons, with enchantments that emphasise disguise, grace, protection and lethality. Many Penfold originals take more innocuous forms than usual, but are no less effective - a black pearl hatpin that functions as a Dagger of Venom, a Cloak of Invisibility in an elegant frock coat, a Staff of Withering in the form of a sleek ebony walking cane.
Prices: Very high, add 20-50% on to the market price. Try to haggle and you might get it lowered just because the Penfolds hate arguing over money (it's just so plebian), but will also be refused any repeat business. They may even send discreet letters of apology to any clients of theirs who were present for the unpleasantness (and they have a lot of professional assassins on their client list, all of whom would love to get on their good side). Emptors who show sincere and knowledgable appreciation for their craftsmanship receive better rates.
Quality: Impeccable. The Penfolds would rather drink poison than let a cursed or flawed item leave their premises, unless the emptor had specifically requested such - as a gift, perhaps? Items are often subtly superior to common examples of their kind, such as an invisibility granting device also masking scent.
Aesthetics: Penfold's distains chasing fashion, preferring timeless elegance that only the cultured eye can appreciate. Colours are muted, favouring shades of sable, argent, arsenic and midnight blues. Decoration is fine and understated; a delicate filigree of golden ivy, a cabouchon jet, a trim of finest lacework. Hard fixtures are in blued steel, brushed brass, ebony and bone. A discerning emptor will note an absence of anything that twinkles or catches the light.
Pecksniff's Relics is a dimly lit, cramped, dusty and haphazardly organized antique shop run by the titular Mr. Bladislav Pecksniff, an almost impossibly aged and wizened man of indeterminate species (stats as a lich, with cleric and druid spells and immunity to Turn Undead). Scuttlebutt holds that he was once a conman on the pilgrim roads, selling old bones and coffin nails to those with more faith than sense, until he came across the real thing in an ancient desert tomb while following a crusade, and realised that his theological specialty could be put to better and more profitable use. This dusty store holds some of the most holy relics in all creation. The original hand-penned epistles of St. Numbus to the Dendarians, the wooden skeleton of Archdruid Pandelmon, the golden thumbs of Sister Briaccus and other long-thought-lost items of reverence can be found here. Mr. Pecksniff himself tolerates idle browsing with thinly veiled suspicion, being quick to remind customers that his store is not a museum (he even has a sign indicating such, one of many) and will angrily swat the hands of anyone he deems unworthy away from his goods if they try to lay their grubby mitts on them.
Roleplaying: Once a cynical con-artist, long familiarity with objects of undeniable holiness has rendered Bladislav Pecksniff something of an omnitheist, though it has done little to improve his temper. He is almost resentful to part with items from his collection, doing so almost out of long habit than any real need (he's long since amassed a misers hoard), and will look for any opportunity to refuse service. Those looking to sell, on the other hand, can expect an unctuous greeting. Pecksniff is an unequalled expert in holy relics of all kinds, and is more than happy to wax on at length about the provenance, legends and powers of anything brought to him.
"Eh? What have we here...ohhh, the cloak of Adolphus the Tristylite, which sheltered him from the slingstones of the Nemerians and the fetid breath of Bendalaphon the Ochre, without interrupting his meditation. One second... Oi, I've told you lot before; you touch it, you bought it! Don't make me call your abbot! Fucking acolytes..."
Specialities: Pecksniff's stock is as eclectic as it is ecclesiastical. He carries few weapons - though there are one or two saint's swords and sacrificial knives about the place - but has umbrella stands full of holy staves, sandalwood cases full of vestments, robes and cloaks (and mothballs), and all manner of amulets containing fragments of saint's bone. He favours the relics of Lawful deities, but has a few eldritch artifacts of the primal gods of Chaos locked up in his basement for those who insist on such things.
Prices: Average, but increasing by 10% every time a party member does something to annoy Mr. Pecksniff. He is very easily annoyed, and careful attention to his multitude of signs ("Look, don't touch", "Silence is golden" , "No spitting, smoking or cats", "Wipe yer feet", among others) is essential in ensuring a good price. Part-exchange is also available.
Quality: Highly variable, some of the relics in Pecksniff's store are items of extraordinary power, on par with a Holy Avenger or Staff of Healing, but quite a few of them are variously cursed or function only for those of Lawful alignment (20% chance of either), and many are actively sought after by sanctioned relic thieves and iconoclasts (3:6 chance that the next random encounter a customer faces is a band of 2D4 Thieves with a zealous glint in their eye).
Aesthetics: While saintly incorruptibility goes a long way, dust and wear still means that much of the stock bears the stamp of its age. Most of them are of clearly archaic design, with bronze or plaited iron instead of steel and pennanular clasps instead of folding pins.
