The first thing you hear is the plinking of bone against bone in quick rhythmic trills. The first thing you see is a curious-looking siren virtually wrapped from her long neck to her lengthy curling tail in informal vestments of seaweed and sponge. Whereas most merfolk you've seen—especially the females—have voluminous tresses of sea-green hair, this one is entirely bald, revealing prominent cranial fins. The plinking is coming from a marimba of sorts, crafted from the ribcage of what must have been a massive fish.
The plinking stops as the siren becomes aware of your presence. She quickly sets down a pair of fishbone mallets, tugging at her coverings to be sure no part of her below the neck or above the wrists is exposed. She turns (really just rolling over to lean on her other flank) to see who has arrived.
"How many have you brought?" she drawls in a high, shrill voice. She extends one webbed hand, clutching her clothes tighter to her body with the other. "The lamps! Give them to me—I must have all of them!" And only now do you notice: in the corner of the grotto sits a massive pile of discarded lamps of every variety—old and new, metal and clay, pristine and shattered beyond repair.
The sound of heavy scissors and cordial conversation greets you as you round the hay bale and pull the barn door to one side. You enter to a strange sight: one humanoid sheep shearing another with a pair of shears made of black volcanic glass. The shearing sheep is short, bald, and littered in the clipped wool from her client. Their conversation is cut short by your presence, and the mood suddenly stiffens.
"Who are you?" the bald sheep bleats warily. She brandishes the obsidian shears. "What do you want?" After only a moment her resolve seems to falter, then hardens. She eyes you and quickly finishes the shave job, turning to clean her tool in a nearby bucket. "You're done, Mary. See you in six weeks."
The other, now-shorter-wooled sheepfolk glares at you, yanks off her barber's apron, and promptly leaves, muttering angrily under her breath. Only after she is gone are you left with the sight of all the knitted woolen blankets covering the walls like curtains, giving the barn a homey look.
"My name is Itztli," the bald sheep barber declares, her grating voice pulling your focus back to the now-clean obsidian shears in her hand. "And this is for more than just shearing sheep. Now answer my questions."
