You have something of mine," declared the young man standing in the mouth of the cave.
The Collector snapped their head around to stare at the intruder with unblinking yellow eyes. From the shadows, the young man could make out the outline of jagged antlers, a pointed white skull, and a lanky seven foot tall figure. A shiver ran down his spine.
"A necklace," the man continued, hoping his voice wouldn't tremble. He had trekked for five days through the thickest wilderness of Rastamoor to reach this place; he couldn't lose his nerve now. "I am Jarko of the Utolle Highlands. The necklace belonged to my mother and I would like it back. Please. It was--"
"Forgotten. Abandoned. Neglected. Discarded." The Collector sneered as they scuttled closer. "You humans can be so careless with your treasures."
At that, Jarko glanced about the cave. There was a teacup whose delicate blue patterns had faded at the edges. A ragged doll with one eye missing, and a tarnished silver hairpin. A half empty bottle of perfume. A ring and a ribbon and a pocketknife and piece of worn out cloth and on and on it went. This place had all the hallmarks of a hoarder's nest, except for the obvious care that was given for each item. The objects were not crammed into drawers or tossed into haphazard piles. They were meticulously placed on the shelves, each one given its own special place of honor. And there was not a single speck of dust to be found.
"These are treasures?" Jarko could not hide incredulity, eying a handful of playing cards. Even at this distance he could tell that it was several cards short of a complete set.
"The best treasures there are," The Collector said, their long spindly fingers hovering over the shelves, briefly touching on several objects as they passed by. “Aha!" The creature found what they were looking for and held it aloft. "Is this what you seek?"
"That’s it!" The young man gasped, gazing at the golden pendant swinging in the air. "What do you want in return?"
"Stories,” The Collector grinned widely and beckoned the man to come inside. “You said this belonged to your mother? Tell me about her."
After a trepidatious pause, Jarko took a seat and began to talk. Slowly at first, but The Collector turned out to be an engaging listener and soon the words were tumbling out with ease. He described his earliest memories of his mother softly singing lullabies on a humid autumn day. Stories about her laughter and her jokes, and the way she tripped over her words when she got excited. How she fashioned weapons for the rest of the village and how no arrow flew as straight and true as those crafted by her hand. The necklace she always wore, an heirloom from her grandmother. He described the way she would spend the evenings in the kitchen baking, always with a touch of cinnamon.
Jarko told of the day he become of age and left to make a name for himself in the city, and how he when he came back many years later he discovered that his mother had passed away from sickness. The house was empty, and there was nothing left to remember her by except the slim chance that the necklace could be retrieved here.
Outside the midday sun faded into the black of night and then back again into the gentle gleam of dawn. When Jarko realized how long he had been speaking, he suddenly worried that the creature was finding his stories tiresome. But then The Collector spoke.
“I am the keeper of trinkets of memories, the caretaker of tokens of nostalgia. I collect those items which once held great personal significance but have since been discarded. Those objects that get abandoned in the corners of the attic and left behind in the cracks of basements; they find their way to my collection and their stories live on with me. But this one. This one is still valued by its original owner.” And with that, The Collector gently handed the necklace back to the young man.
“Thank you,” Jarko whispered, clutching the pendant close to his chest.
“Remember, I only take that which is forgotten," The Collector warned. “Be careful not to let it fall back into my hands.”
“I won’t.”