The first time I went to that mad artificer to pick up my order, he gave me a bag of molding. I corrected him and gave the artifact to a cheese making friend.

  The second time, he gave me a bag of olding. I corrected him a second time and gave the artifact to a winery I was invested in.

  The third time, he gave me a bag of folding. I handed it to the maid beside me (maybe she could use it). I rubbed my temple as I struggled not to strangle the man in my anger. For a third time, I corrected him as to what I wanted.

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  "Oh!" he cried. "You want a bag of--"

  At that, a lightning bolt from the god of copyright came through the window and struck the poor man. His heart gave out and he died immediately. The room smelt of burnt pork. I tried not to heave as I carefully let myself out.

  Perhaps I ought to just hire a wagon.