Bildrath is the mercantile because the mercantile is Bildrath. He inherited it from his uncle, who inherited it from his aunt, and the store has passed down a single unbroken line of miserly relatives for six generations. He charges outsiders ten times the local rate not out of greed but out of principle: outsiders will leave, and their money is the only money that reliably comes into Old Barovia. Villagers get near-cost — quietly, at the counter after hours, in transactions Bildrath does not acknowledge in daylight. Parriwimple was born to Bildrath’s brother, who did not survive Parriwimple’s mother’s death. He is the closest thing to family Bildrath has, and Bildrath’s affection for him is the only place his miserliness fails.

A bell rings when you push the door open. Inside is dim. Every wall is shelves; every shelf is full. Bildrath stands behind the counter with his arms crossed. His nephew Parriwimple sits by the fish barrel, cleaning fish.

Sensory

• Dried fish, tar rope, tallow candles
• Old book smell from a locked cabinet in the corner
• Parriwimple humming tunelessly