Henchmen Of The Dormant Mirror
All the life of the city swirls and eddies in the clamorous din of the Grand Bazaar. Light fingered step boys sidle through the crowds of Middle Towners, Guildsmen and freejacks, their eyes seem glued on some trinket on a stall, drawing your attention to where you think theirs lies, and then their hands are busy at your belt and purse. House Matrons with their train of uniformed girls push through the crowds, parting the masses like magisterial ice breakers move the floes, they are alert to the step boys and a cane whips out scoring the hand of a thief foolish enough to try and distract the governess.
At the farthest reach of the bazaar, close under the crumbling ring walls, the Henchmen lurk, the flaps of their shoddy and mould tainted yurt partially obscuring the shrouded mirror within. The Henchmen could be twins, so similar in height, broad girth and unkempt facial hair are they, they dress in old clothes that are not quite peasant's garb, but which does not mark them as successful merchants either, soft breeks, patched leather coats and wide brimmed hats which serve to hood their eyes. Beneath that brim though their eyes are wetly vigilant, in a moment they appraise and discard the hundreds that flow past their door, eyes flickering from passerby to passerby, seeking the one they can lure inside.
Everyone knows the legend of the Dormant Mirror, how the mirror's owner was lost inside it and only the sacrifice of a score times her beauty and wit would appease it and release her from the prison of replication. So the Henchmen hunt, and a hundred folk might walk into that tent, see the henchman's hand pull the dark cloth from the mirror, and then see nothing reflected in the pitted and mildewed surface. Sometimes though, some young and beautiful creature enters that lair and they are not seen again, and then the yurt remains closed and rapidly falls into disrepair until it is naught more than a rotten heap of skins and sticks.