ryanmcallister80
Moon
- Joined
- Nov 13, 2014
- Location
- UK
It was a blustery spring afternoon when a bedraggled Jean-Alexandre Dumont and his pack mule trudged into the small village in the wilds between the Empire and Brettonia. His long overcoat and wide brimmed hat were gaudily decorated with a plethora of brightly coloured scarves and his poor mule was weighed down with a number of wooden chests and saddlebags. His dark brown hair, despite his best attempts to keep it under his hat, was wild and windswept as was his general appearance. He had several days of growth on his chin and his round spectacles were cracked and hung crookedly from his nose. His stooped shoulders and crooked walking stick gave the impression of someone having endured a hard life. He walked slowly to the inn by the main square, looking like one in need of a long soak and a good night’s sleep.
He huffed and puffed up to the stable lad, pressing a coin into the young boy’s hand “Make sure Dobbin is well watered lad, there’s more where that came from if she tells me you’ve taken good care of her.” He whispered hoarsely in the lad’s ear.
He hobbled over the courtyard and into the taproom, his stick tapping loudly on the stone floor. He smiled at the barman and loudly ordered a ‘tankard of your finest and a hot meal’ before finding a table by the fire and settling down. To anyone that enquired he was a travelling herbalist, specialising in potions and tinctures to treat all ills, as well as making more outlandish claims about his wares – love potions and the like – and telling all and sundry that he’d fended off two attempts to strip him of his goods while he travelled the roads alone.
He was silent only to eat and drink, regaling anyone who’d listen to his tales of who he’d sold potions too and the dangers he’d faced searching for rare and valuable herbs and plants. Nobody believed his exaggerated tales, but he seemed harmless and friendly enough. He intended to set up a stall in the market over the next few days before moving on to the next town. Once he’d eaten his fill, he paid for a room and hot bath before buying a bottle of spirits.
He huffed and puffed up to the stable lad, pressing a coin into the young boy’s hand “Make sure Dobbin is well watered lad, there’s more where that came from if she tells me you’ve taken good care of her.” He whispered hoarsely in the lad’s ear.
He hobbled over the courtyard and into the taproom, his stick tapping loudly on the stone floor. He smiled at the barman and loudly ordered a ‘tankard of your finest and a hot meal’ before finding a table by the fire and settling down. To anyone that enquired he was a travelling herbalist, specialising in potions and tinctures to treat all ills, as well as making more outlandish claims about his wares – love potions and the like – and telling all and sundry that he’d fended off two attempts to strip him of his goods while he travelled the roads alone.
He was silent only to eat and drink, regaling anyone who’d listen to his tales of who he’d sold potions too and the dangers he’d faced searching for rare and valuable herbs and plants. Nobody believed his exaggerated tales, but he seemed harmless and friendly enough. He intended to set up a stall in the market over the next few days before moving on to the next town. Once he’d eaten his fill, he paid for a room and hot bath before buying a bottle of spirits.