In the charming, convoluted labyrinth of Calmhold, where the eccentric and the everyday rub shoulders like old chums at a country fair, there stands a most curious establishment known as Martex's Honour. It's not a pastry shop, nor a haberdashery, but rather a temple supply store with an air of otherworldly mystery and the unmistakable scent of sanctity.
Now, the Ayerock religion is quite the affair in these parts, with its devotion to Martex, the god of the mountain, reaching the kind of fervor usually reserved for gossip at a tea party. At Martex's Honour, one can partake in the splendors of this faith by acquiring an assortment of supplies most sacred. Ink and paper for the transcription of holy texts, spell scrolls to unlock the secrets of the universe, incense to fill your living room with the fragrance of divinity, and wands, which, I'm told, are quite handy when dealing with malevolent spirits or an overeager pot of tea.

The keeper of this temple supply haven, a certain Argath Welm, is a paragon of piety and propriety. As a priest of Martex himself, he exudes a sense of divine serenity, like a tranquil mountain stream gurgling its way through an enchanted glen. His eyes, I'm told, twinkle with the wisdom of the ancients, and his words, as soothing as a lullaby, are laced with the resonance of the divine.
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