The horse's snort interrupted the silence that had settled over the night like a soft lullaby. The animal, large enough to be a stallion, trotted forward as its rider incited it with his feet. And silence fell again, the patient type of silence that awaited for the dawn to come, the wary type of silence that feared what would happen when it came.
The primitive road that led to the town was deserted at this time of the night, long past the hour of the wolf. The horse trotted through it at an amenable pace, with the rider keeping a handle on the reigns while taking a look at the forested area that surrounded the road from both sides.
Pine and ash and elder: the trees gathered together in the gloom of the night, their branches reaching out into the road, as if trying to snatch it, their roots deep beneath the ground. Spindly twigs and amalgamations of unfriendly ferns and leaves guarded the forest, giving it a malicious, dangerous look in the night. The forest of Marlenweed extended itself for miles, and peasants had long learned, despite its outskirts being so pleasant when the sun was up, not to enter the deep parts of the forest. Not alone. Not at night.
Not that the rider cared: he had no intentions of entering the forest, at least for now. But he knew all about the exciting myths that populated the area, as interchangeable from location to location as they were. Jack pressed on, making his steed pick up the pace.
The rider who called himself Jack arrived at the Midling plains by the break of dawn, leaving the forest road behind and entering the lusher terrains in which many peasants had their farms. Jack raised a hand to his eyes, squinting at the morning light. He could already see the lowly peasants miling around their houses, leading the oxes and cows around their terrains. His eyes passed through bushes and fields of autumn crops and fixed on the so called Kemp keep and the town surrounding it.
Well, it'd be a good place as any. The man lowered his hood with one hand and spured his horse again, approaching the town in a quick gallop. To his credit, he didn't trample any peasant. After all, it was a nice autumn day, and a physician was generally supposed to mend bones, not break them. Jack was feeling suprisingly jovial. He'd get to break bones soon enough down the line.
The primitive road that led to the town was deserted at this time of the night, long past the hour of the wolf. The horse trotted through it at an amenable pace, with the rider keeping a handle on the reigns while taking a look at the forested area that surrounded the road from both sides.
Pine and ash and elder: the trees gathered together in the gloom of the night, their branches reaching out into the road, as if trying to snatch it, their roots deep beneath the ground. Spindly twigs and amalgamations of unfriendly ferns and leaves guarded the forest, giving it a malicious, dangerous look in the night. The forest of Marlenweed extended itself for miles, and peasants had long learned, despite its outskirts being so pleasant when the sun was up, not to enter the deep parts of the forest. Not alone. Not at night.
Not that the rider cared: he had no intentions of entering the forest, at least for now. But he knew all about the exciting myths that populated the area, as interchangeable from location to location as they were. Jack pressed on, making his steed pick up the pace.
The rider who called himself Jack arrived at the Midling plains by the break of dawn, leaving the forest road behind and entering the lusher terrains in which many peasants had their farms. Jack raised a hand to his eyes, squinting at the morning light. He could already see the lowly peasants miling around their houses, leading the oxes and cows around their terrains. His eyes passed through bushes and fields of autumn crops and fixed on the so called Kemp keep and the town surrounding it.
Well, it'd be a good place as any. The man lowered his hood with one hand and spured his horse again, approaching the town in a quick gallop. To his credit, he didn't trample any peasant. After all, it was a nice autumn day, and a physician was generally supposed to mend bones, not break them. Jack was feeling suprisingly jovial. He'd get to break bones soon enough down the line.
Marriage isn’t love.
It sure would be nice if it were.
No, marriage was an oath, a contract, an obligation.
By the binding word of her mouth, Ivan’s mother Yennifer swore her life to Ivan’s father Bernard. She became his, and though she accepted fate’s current without complaint, Ivan had known for a long time now that she had never once loved Bernard. As for her children, she was passionately involved. Every death stole the light from her eyes, and the color from her cheeks, as though with their passing, some life of hers was taken, too. That was the most telling. Her pinched, pale face and lightless eyes gave no heed to her husband’s careful touch nor to his gentle words. They had no effect; he was not in her heart. Nor, Ivan surmised from the obligation in his tired gestures, was she in his.
That was why Ivan didn’t expect anything from this thing called marriage. It meant as much to him as trading fruit at the market for the grain he harvested.
It meant that to his parents, too, who were even now turning a conversation from the cost of seven bright red apples to the cost of their son, and the calculable worth of the merchant’s daughter.
“I would really be the one at the disadvantage here,” the merchant was saying. A plump man who sported spiralling facial hair and wagged a quick tongue, his drawl curled with lazy arrogance. “Just look at my clothes and compare them to anything in your homes, on your backs. There is a chasm between us that a lifetime’s worth of a Miller’s labor would not be able to bridge. It would simply not be in my best interest to consider any sort of marital arrangement with the likes of you.”
A scoff rose up in Ivan’s throat, but he broke into a cough to smother it. His eyes looked anywhere but at this blustering fop. It was common knowledge in the village that this merchant, Androis von Bureloo, was a thieving scoundrel. He had coins to line his pockets, certainly. But they were ill-gotten gains from trinket schemes and unscrupulous taxes. His trading post was the only one in the village, which meant it would take a week if anyone wanted to visit the competition. Androis charged inordinate percentages to sell at the booth, and each one was geared towards the predicted success of the sales. He was an unlikable man, so unlikable in fact that Ivan wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if he found Androis a corpse discarded outside tavern someday, doused in ale and blood, slain for demanding one coin too many.
To top it off, Androis’ daughter was an irreverent and cruel woman seven years older than Ivan. A crone, an undesirable woman, lesser than a widow. Ivan was pretty sure he was a killer deal as a marriage partner for such a woman. A miller’s son is better than no son at all, right?
“I understand,” Ivan’s father said. “I know you to be a charitable man, but alas. I have asked for too much. Forgive me, we will go in peace.”
Taking his wife by the arm, Bernard the Miller had taken two paces away before Androis called him back.
There. Ivan smothered a shudder. It would not be long now. Both parties now engaged in rigorous banter that would end with both agreeing somewhere between the two. A date would be set. A marriage arranged, and Ivan would become the desperate man whose firstborn son is given as payment for a merger.
And, perhaps happiest of all in the eyes of mother and father, when Androis at last should hand over half the dowry in advance, then Marie, poor sickly sister, would have her tonic paid in full this month.
It sure would be nice if it were.
No, marriage was an oath, a contract, an obligation.
By the binding word of her mouth, Ivan’s mother Yennifer swore her life to Ivan’s father Bernard. She became his, and though she accepted fate’s current without complaint, Ivan had known for a long time now that she had never once loved Bernard. As for her children, she was passionately involved. Every death stole the light from her eyes, and the color from her cheeks, as though with their passing, some life of hers was taken, too. That was the most telling. Her pinched, pale face and lightless eyes gave no heed to her husband’s careful touch nor to his gentle words. They had no effect; he was not in her heart. Nor, Ivan surmised from the obligation in his tired gestures, was she in his.
That was why Ivan didn’t expect anything from this thing called marriage. It meant as much to him as trading fruit at the market for the grain he harvested.
It meant that to his parents, too, who were even now turning a conversation from the cost of seven bright red apples to the cost of their son, and the calculable worth of the merchant’s daughter.
“I would really be the one at the disadvantage here,” the merchant was saying. A plump man who sported spiralling facial hair and wagged a quick tongue, his drawl curled with lazy arrogance. “Just look at my clothes and compare them to anything in your homes, on your backs. There is a chasm between us that a lifetime’s worth of a Miller’s labor would not be able to bridge. It would simply not be in my best interest to consider any sort of marital arrangement with the likes of you.”
A scoff rose up in Ivan’s throat, but he broke into a cough to smother it. His eyes looked anywhere but at this blustering fop. It was common knowledge in the village that this merchant, Androis von Bureloo, was a thieving scoundrel. He had coins to line his pockets, certainly. But they were ill-gotten gains from trinket schemes and unscrupulous taxes. His trading post was the only one in the village, which meant it would take a week if anyone wanted to visit the competition. Androis charged inordinate percentages to sell at the booth, and each one was geared towards the predicted success of the sales. He was an unlikable man, so unlikable in fact that Ivan wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if he found Androis a corpse discarded outside tavern someday, doused in ale and blood, slain for demanding one coin too many.
To top it off, Androis’ daughter was an irreverent and cruel woman seven years older than Ivan. A crone, an undesirable woman, lesser than a widow. Ivan was pretty sure he was a killer deal as a marriage partner for such a woman. A miller’s son is better than no son at all, right?
“I understand,” Ivan’s father said. “I know you to be a charitable man, but alas. I have asked for too much. Forgive me, we will go in peace.”
Taking his wife by the arm, Bernard the Miller had taken two paces away before Androis called him back.
There. Ivan smothered a shudder. It would not be long now. Both parties now engaged in rigorous banter that would end with both agreeing somewhere between the two. A date would be set. A marriage arranged, and Ivan would become the desperate man whose firstborn son is given as payment for a merger.
And, perhaps happiest of all in the eyes of mother and father, when Androis at last should hand over half the dowry in advance, then Marie, poor sickly sister, would have her tonic paid in full this month.
"Hear hear! Hear hear! Tonics and medicine to sell! Hear hear! Hear hear! For seven pennies, indigestions I quell! Twelve for a patching up, with needle and thread! Nineteen for a potion, for all the sicknesses ahead!" The man chanted from the center of the market, proclaiming all the prices and utilities of his merchandise. A crowd was already starting to flock around his stall like moths to a flame: the physician of the Keep didn't tend to peasants for just any price, and wandering healers came by only every so often.
This one looked professional, as much as a wandering healer could look professional. Most of them were shady, ragged alchemists, mending ailments with results that occasionally proved to be worriesome at best and fatal at worst. Others were more qualified, arriving on their strange, shaggy grey mules, dressed in the grey-blue robes of the Anaïon Order. This one was different from the others, with a confidence and range of merchandise that elevated him above the street physicians, and a lack of humility, piousness, and habit that separated him from the wandering Anaïonin clerics.
There were other reasons for the crowd gathering around Jack than the lack of phyisicians. Perhaps it was his voice, almost as charismatic as any public speaker and with an extravagantly courteous tone. Perhaps it was his actual wares, which consisted of interesingly coloured potions in twisting vials with odd names slapped on their labels.* Or perhaps it was his appearance, which Jack spent a while working on. The goatee was sharply cut, and his wavy hair was decently arranged. The man's eyes were as light blue as always, however, but even they were affably corteous.
"Yes, missus, there's a little something to calm the little one's fevers. Give him a drop of this and this every night for half dozen days, and he'll perk up in no time! Don'tcha give it to him any more than that, though." Jack talked through the crowd with efficacy, exchanging purses and vials quickly.
"Calm down, lad, and show me your arm. Oh, t'is only a flesh wound, worry not. Cut yourself in a - oh, you're the glassblower's apprentice? Very well, roll up your sleeve and let put this herb on your arm. It'll soften the pain. Now let me get my needles. They're very sharp, you won't feel a thing. No, no, you really won't feel a thing! You might also not be able to use your arm for a dozen hours. Do sit down here, please, chop chop! Sorry, that was uncalled for. Now then, you there, m'darlin', talk to me while I patch up our friend here. Sleeping problems, ye say?"
And on and on Jack spoke and selled and stitched, with all the easy conversation of a physician that was trying to keep his patients at ease. But Jack was not only soothing his customers: behind the idle chatter and the eloquent words, the entity was also quietly taking note of the villagers that crowded around him. Of who they were, of what they did, of who they knew, of what they liked. Not all were so given to talk, of course, but Jack did what he could and observed what was shown.
For instance, Jack was quickly finding out that one of the richest individuals in the Keep, apart from it's effective owners, was not thought of fondly. The current balance was at three unflattering comparisons with a pig, four remarks about his love affairs with an eel or a lamprey, a few comments about his personal higiene, and Jack was currently listening to a vivid description of the merchant's daughter's marriage prospects. This amused Jack: greed and envy were some of the humans' most fascinating qualities: they spread out like wildfire and were harder to stamp out than a cockroach. (Greed and envy. Not humans. The later were somewhat easier to stamp out.)
*Ominous latin phrases always made an impression on villagers. Jack found it amusing.
This one looked professional, as much as a wandering healer could look professional. Most of them were shady, ragged alchemists, mending ailments with results that occasionally proved to be worriesome at best and fatal at worst. Others were more qualified, arriving on their strange, shaggy grey mules, dressed in the grey-blue robes of the Anaïon Order. This one was different from the others, with a confidence and range of merchandise that elevated him above the street physicians, and a lack of humility, piousness, and habit that separated him from the wandering Anaïonin clerics.
There were other reasons for the crowd gathering around Jack than the lack of phyisicians. Perhaps it was his voice, almost as charismatic as any public speaker and with an extravagantly courteous tone. Perhaps it was his actual wares, which consisted of interesingly coloured potions in twisting vials with odd names slapped on their labels.* Or perhaps it was his appearance, which Jack spent a while working on. The goatee was sharply cut, and his wavy hair was decently arranged. The man's eyes were as light blue as always, however, but even they were affably corteous.
"Yes, missus, there's a little something to calm the little one's fevers. Give him a drop of this and this every night for half dozen days, and he'll perk up in no time! Don'tcha give it to him any more than that, though." Jack talked through the crowd with efficacy, exchanging purses and vials quickly.
"Calm down, lad, and show me your arm. Oh, t'is only a flesh wound, worry not. Cut yourself in a - oh, you're the glassblower's apprentice? Very well, roll up your sleeve and let put this herb on your arm. It'll soften the pain. Now let me get my needles. They're very sharp, you won't feel a thing. No, no, you really won't feel a thing! You might also not be able to use your arm for a dozen hours. Do sit down here, please, chop chop! Sorry, that was uncalled for. Now then, you there, m'darlin', talk to me while I patch up our friend here. Sleeping problems, ye say?"
And on and on Jack spoke and selled and stitched, with all the easy conversation of a physician that was trying to keep his patients at ease. But Jack was not only soothing his customers: behind the idle chatter and the eloquent words, the entity was also quietly taking note of the villagers that crowded around him. Of who they were, of what they did, of who they knew, of what they liked. Not all were so given to talk, of course, but Jack did what he could and observed what was shown.
For instance, Jack was quickly finding out that one of the richest individuals in the Keep, apart from it's effective owners, was not thought of fondly. The current balance was at three unflattering comparisons with a pig, four remarks about his love affairs with an eel or a lamprey, a few comments about his personal higiene, and Jack was currently listening to a vivid description of the merchant's daughter's marriage prospects. This amused Jack: greed and envy were some of the humans' most fascinating qualities: they spread out like wildfire and were harder to stamp out than a cockroach. (Greed and envy. Not humans. The later were somewhat easier to stamp out.)
*Ominous latin phrases always made an impression on villagers. Jack found it amusing.
Ten silver jingled in the leather purse tied to Bernard's belt. Ten silver in advance, and ten silver to come. A hefty dowry to be sure -- twice what father made a year. Ivan's heart was a stone. Bernard urged him to smile at this hard-won victory. The miller fanily had been pushing for this union since they'd noticed a deficit in funds for Marie's tonic eighteen moons ago, and Ivan should surely be happy to see his sister's health improve.
Ivan forced the corners of his mouth to stretch. He nodded and tried not to think. That satisfied Bernard at least to turn his eyes to the road, whereupon he loudly gasped.
"I've not seen such a sight since midwinter!" Bernard said, pointing. "What the devil is all that commotion about?"
Farther down the clay street, set up in the middle of the road, a growing crowd with oohs and aahs of admiration clumped tightly together around the raised figure of a man. His voice called out clear as a church bell, going on with clever rhyming phrases about tonics and medicines.
Bernard came to the fringes of the crowd, his neck craning with raised interest. Most of them had only gathered to watch; a show unraveled in the middle, an excitable display of injuries and succor.
Bernard hit a beavy hand across Ivan's back, sending the young man stumbling on. "Well, go on, Ivan. See what all the fuss is about afore the curly cutpurse catches wind of this."
Bile rose in Ivan's throat. His lip curled, and frigid loathing shone in his eyes. He wove through the crowd ahead, pushing on occasion and offering no apology. A few faces he recognized -- the butcher's son, and his flame-haired wife, Alvin the nosy neighbor, and even Gordon, the local apothecary, whose eyes were wide with a mix of horror and avid interest.
He'd managed to squeeze through a last crack before the front row, and came to a leery stop at the exposd circle of respectful distance before the travelling merchant. A bloody mess he'd made, of a half-conscious Erec, whose arm and exposed flesh weeped red. Nimble fingers stitched the wound like it were a pair of torn breeches. As he worked, the merchant carried on a conversation with a pale young woman, whose hands were the tighter held as the operation continued on.
A mixture of disgust and horror rose up in Ivan, but as he continued to watch, a growing fascination took root, and held. The motions of the merchant were quick and confident, and after slapping some green mixture over Erec's stitches, he sent the boy away. With precision, he picked out little glass vials from his display case and handed them over to each hopeful in turn. It was all handled with a cheery ease, and seemed utterly foreign in this place where obligation and obsequious pandering ruled the business of men.
"Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!"
The crowd berudgingly parted for Androis von Bureloo, and the fat man waddled his way to the front like an obese duck. "Monsieur, monsieur, a simple mistake you have made. Kemp is not like the other cities, we require permits to set up shop here in the marketplace. Worry not, I will not fine you for your ignorance of our ways. But you must come to my shop and discuss your wares if you would like to continue this, erm, business-doing."
Ivan forced the corners of his mouth to stretch. He nodded and tried not to think. That satisfied Bernard at least to turn his eyes to the road, whereupon he loudly gasped.
"I've not seen such a sight since midwinter!" Bernard said, pointing. "What the devil is all that commotion about?"
Farther down the clay street, set up in the middle of the road, a growing crowd with oohs and aahs of admiration clumped tightly together around the raised figure of a man. His voice called out clear as a church bell, going on with clever rhyming phrases about tonics and medicines.
Bernard came to the fringes of the crowd, his neck craning with raised interest. Most of them had only gathered to watch; a show unraveled in the middle, an excitable display of injuries and succor.
Bernard hit a beavy hand across Ivan's back, sending the young man stumbling on. "Well, go on, Ivan. See what all the fuss is about afore the curly cutpurse catches wind of this."
Bile rose in Ivan's throat. His lip curled, and frigid loathing shone in his eyes. He wove through the crowd ahead, pushing on occasion and offering no apology. A few faces he recognized -- the butcher's son, and his flame-haired wife, Alvin the nosy neighbor, and even Gordon, the local apothecary, whose eyes were wide with a mix of horror and avid interest.
He'd managed to squeeze through a last crack before the front row, and came to a leery stop at the exposd circle of respectful distance before the travelling merchant. A bloody mess he'd made, of a half-conscious Erec, whose arm and exposed flesh weeped red. Nimble fingers stitched the wound like it were a pair of torn breeches. As he worked, the merchant carried on a conversation with a pale young woman, whose hands were the tighter held as the operation continued on.
A mixture of disgust and horror rose up in Ivan, but as he continued to watch, a growing fascination took root, and held. The motions of the merchant were quick and confident, and after slapping some green mixture over Erec's stitches, he sent the boy away. With precision, he picked out little glass vials from his display case and handed them over to each hopeful in turn. It was all handled with a cheery ease, and seemed utterly foreign in this place where obligation and obsequious pandering ruled the business of men.
"Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!"
The crowd berudgingly parted for Androis von Bureloo, and the fat man waddled his way to the front like an obese duck. "Monsieur, monsieur, a simple mistake you have made. Kemp is not like the other cities, we require permits to set up shop here in the marketplace. Worry not, I will not fine you for your ignorance of our ways. But you must come to my shop and discuss your wares if you would like to continue this, erm, business-doing."
Jack mantained his tête-à-tête with his other patients as his work on the arm of the apprentice glassblower continued, with it requiring slightly more time than his other lightning quick exchanges. He could hear the noise of more people beginning to flock around the travelling physician's stall as he patched up his patient: the peasants seemed to find gruesome espectacles almost as entertaining as he did, by the looks of it. Nevertheless it was excellent: more people attracted more people, and the crowd would soon grow into something else: rumours and news spread fast in reasonably small cities, after all.
He raised his eyes from the arm and spoke jovial words at the bearded, burly man that was the next in line, conducting a brief inquiry about his inevitable problem. Out of the corner of his eye, the so called travelling physician could see a commotion in the fringes of the crowd, as if somebody was pushing their way through it. Jack decided to ignore it for now: so what if some human of a wider girth wanted to see him that much? He turned his attention back to the burly man, having already finished patching up the glassblower's apprentice arm, when the said human of wider girth left the crowd and interrupted his work.
"Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!" The fat man exclaimed, approaching Jack with the commanding aura of someone who thought himself to be extremely important. He was not the only one who believed this fact, it seemed: the crowd begrudgingly let him pass when they were nudging themselves for the next place in line only a few moments before, and the bearded man that the physician had been talking with took a step backwards to avoid the plump newcomer. Jack's eyes strolled over the man's clothes and apparel: he certainly was rich. This, combined with his morbid obesity and arrogance, made Jack suspect that he was the lamprey merchant that lorded over Kemp with his ill-acquired money and fascinating facial hair.
The lamprey's words irritated Jack: he would have tolerated some form of initial arrogance, but Jack didn't approve of the unfortunate "must" that escaped the man's mouth. The physician was not fond of obligations, nor of the way the merchant was attempting to get Jack to pay a part of his profits to him, like he probably did to other travelling salesmen. Jack put his needle and thread down and put up a very wide smile up. All teeth.
"Fine me, my good monsieur?" Jack asked, approaching the merchant in large strides without bothering to wipe his hands from all the blood. "But you are not the lord of the city, oui? Nor, needless to say, a guard. But I do thank you for alerting me to this fact, my good man!" Jack said in the gleeful tones of a pyromaniac with a flamethrower, taking the merchant's (still attached, mind) hands and shaking them enthusiastically, splashing blood all over his fine clothes. He obtained the expected reaction and suppressed a little laugh as the merchant jerked his hand backwards from Jack's cold, strong grip.
"Even so, my good man, I really don't believe I'll be accompanying you to your shop: why not talk with me here while I further practice my arts, hmn? The crowd would surely appreciate it! They seem so interested in my healing skills, and I expect wy'll be able to convince a guard if he decides to show up. Tell me, old chap, are you in need of any assistance? Perhaps a small potion to help you wake with more energy in the morning? Or maybe even a tonic for the colouration of your skin?" Jack gave the merchant a brilliant grin that nevertheless was slightly off, smile too wide, teeth too sharp.
He raised his eyes from the arm and spoke jovial words at the bearded, burly man that was the next in line, conducting a brief inquiry about his inevitable problem. Out of the corner of his eye, the so called travelling physician could see a commotion in the fringes of the crowd, as if somebody was pushing their way through it. Jack decided to ignore it for now: so what if some human of a wider girth wanted to see him that much? He turned his attention back to the burly man, having already finished patching up the glassblower's apprentice arm, when the said human of wider girth left the crowd and interrupted his work.
"Excusez-moi! Excusez-moi!" The fat man exclaimed, approaching Jack with the commanding aura of someone who thought himself to be extremely important. He was not the only one who believed this fact, it seemed: the crowd begrudgingly let him pass when they were nudging themselves for the next place in line only a few moments before, and the bearded man that the physician had been talking with took a step backwards to avoid the plump newcomer. Jack's eyes strolled over the man's clothes and apparel: he certainly was rich. This, combined with his morbid obesity and arrogance, made Jack suspect that he was the lamprey merchant that lorded over Kemp with his ill-acquired money and fascinating facial hair.
The lamprey's words irritated Jack: he would have tolerated some form of initial arrogance, but Jack didn't approve of the unfortunate "must" that escaped the man's mouth. The physician was not fond of obligations, nor of the way the merchant was attempting to get Jack to pay a part of his profits to him, like he probably did to other travelling salesmen. Jack put his needle and thread down and put up a very wide smile up. All teeth.
"Fine me, my good monsieur?" Jack asked, approaching the merchant in large strides without bothering to wipe his hands from all the blood. "But you are not the lord of the city, oui? Nor, needless to say, a guard. But I do thank you for alerting me to this fact, my good man!" Jack said in the gleeful tones of a pyromaniac with a flamethrower, taking the merchant's (still attached, mind) hands and shaking them enthusiastically, splashing blood all over his fine clothes. He obtained the expected reaction and suppressed a little laugh as the merchant jerked his hand backwards from Jack's cold, strong grip.
"Even so, my good man, I really don't believe I'll be accompanying you to your shop: why not talk with me here while I further practice my arts, hmn? The crowd would surely appreciate it! They seem so interested in my healing skills, and I expect wy'll be able to convince a guard if he decides to show up. Tell me, old chap, are you in need of any assistance? Perhaps a small potion to help you wake with more energy in the morning? Or maybe even a tonic for the colouration of your skin?" Jack gave the merchant a brilliant grin that nevertheless was slightly off, smile too wide, teeth too sharp.
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