She smiles and then leaves. It's time to go to the market.

The market!

What can be said about the famous turtle markets that has not already been repeated a hundred times in song and story? Doubtless you have heard already of the tight-packed market stalls, bedecked with colorful fabrics and selling all manner of materials, products, and devices. Terrance wanders the grasslands, from east to west and north to south, and so there is little that cannot be found somewhere in his market, for the right price.

Here, an alchemist hawking cures for exposure to poisonous metals. There, a baker inviting members of the crowd up onto a scale.

The scents of spices, flowers, tea, leather, canvas, clay, and a thousand other materials mix and twist into a wholly distinct aroma. The smell is lifted by the breezes that dart back and forth, fluttering the awnings of the stalls and carrying messages from one place in the market to another.

The flooring here is worn wood, not bare shell, the better to prevent shoppers from tripping over the thick cables that lie around Terrance's scutes and to which the stalls are affixed.

And at the center of it all, in the space kept clear of stalls (although nothing could clear it of buskers, hawkers, urchins, or miscellaneous other passers-by), sits the headquarters of the Merchant's Association: a small, cylindrical building through which stream the small rivulet of people who have not been distracted from their bureaucratic quests by the shiny temptations of Terrance's market.

So the thing about a person's weight in bread might not just be a silly example.

She looks around the market and especially tries to focus on how people seem to be feeling the general vibe is pretty positive from a first glance. She was originally coming here to get money for an inn and that was solved at the library so she's mostly wandering aimlessly.

It does look like there's a good amount of food options and a lot of them smell appetizing so that's a good sign. Eventually, she takes a pause from her wandering to stop in the Merchant Association building.

The whole market is busy, but the Merchants' Association building is quite possibly moreso. Inside, a number of clerks sit behind a circular table. The lines, therefore, seem to naturally gravitate toward the shape of a stubby spiral galaxy: each customer lining up behind a current one, but just slightly to the side, so they can see if there's another line that's moving more quickly.

All the lines, however, are moving quickly, so she will soon reach the front; the clerks deal with the various requests with practiced efficiency.