There was a slippery crunch underfoot as the Medicine Seller stepped into the dusty room. There were several rat carcasses in varying stages of decay littered across the floor. The room was higher up and thus had been spared the red lyrium growths that had taken over the lower levels. He suspected the rats must have fled here to take refuge from the growths below and starved to death. The room had gotten little more than a perfunctory check for glowing red clusters before being left in largely the state it was, which was frankly an unsanitary mess.
But despite the scattered dead vermin, the mess of moldering books and scrolls and the overpowering stench of death and decay, the room had its advantages. It was spacious as these rooms went, probably an office once as there was a desk and several shelves and cabinets. The desk was beyond repair - something had smashed it. But the shelves were intact and had some useful looking bits and bobs that he could salvage.
"It is a wonder a Gashadokuro has not appeared," he said softly, sparing the crunched carcass a pitying glance, before continuing his exploration.
He found the bodies behind a bookcase - a templar and a mage if the rusted armour and tattered robes were anything to go by. They were slumped down, huddled together under the safety of the book cases, and their bodies picked clean of flesh by hungry rats. The Medicine Seller knelt down, inspecting the skeletons - both women judging by the jawline - and one of them still held an open vial. Picking it up, he gave it a sniff.
Hemlock and wolfsbane. Or something similar. It would seem they'd poisoned themselves, opting to die together rather than on opposing sides.
"A lovers' suicide," he mused, perhaps to himself, perhaps to the sword tucked neatly in the sash around his middle.
b. rift them a new one
The Medicine Seller was not given to hard labour. The best that could be said about him was that he'd cleaned out the room he'd picked for himself and didn't protest too greatly if he got roped into helping others with their own cleaning.
But the rifts - he made himself more than a little useful there. The scales that seemed to measure distance rather than weight were particularly handy in pointing the way to nearby, active rifts. And his own abilities seemed tailor made for dealing with demons. He was incredibly skilled at blocking their way with his paper talismans or hindering their movements with some unseen yet powerful force - leaving them ripe for the picking to more offensive-minded combatants.
It probably seem strange that he carried a sword then. He certainly never unsheathed it, though he'd used it once or twice to block a blow from a particularly obstinate terror demon. It was a odd thing, short and thin, almost more a dagger than a sword. It seemed more decorative than functional but then again, so did the Medicine Seller, and he was quite at home in a supernatural scuffle. The sheath and handle were polished wood, stained red and inlaid with gold and gems. There was a strange, goblin-like head with eyes of amber on the handle. To the keen observer, the face seemed to subtly change expressions and sometimes its mouth was open, other times closed. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light.
One could not really say for certain
c. city living
Kirkwall was a mess. It was a tangle of poverty, prejudice, and dark secrets and forbidden things. Of course, that just so happened to be the kind of mess the Medicine Seller liked.
When he wasn't helping with the effort at the Gallows or volunteering for rift closings, he took to wandering. While the shard in his hand kept him on the same short leash as before, there was now so much more to explore.
There was a good number of merchants around the docks, and the Medicine Seller found he could make quite a pretty penny selling 'Old Dalish Remedies' and 'Mysterious Elven Artifacts' (their words, not his. He just wasn't above rolling with other's assumptions if it made his life little easier. And richer.)
He spent an obscenely large amount of time shopping for fish - one would think that in a port city it wouldn't be so much a feat to acquire them fresh, but apparently that just wasn't the case. Still, he managed, even if his keen nose had been thrown off a number of times by the overwhelming fish smell. He may have to invest in a pole and bait and simply catch his own - it seemed less effort.
Each day was a new adventure though. New sights, new sounds, new smells. He'd even ventured into the Hanged Man. He didn't buy a drink, however, because he was fairly certain that the beer being served, while whatever it was made of had certainly been fermented and distilled, it wasn't any grain he could tell.
Bones, Battles, and Bad Beer - oh my!
There was a slippery crunch underfoot as the Medicine Seller stepped into the dusty room. There were several rat carcasses in varying stages of decay littered across the floor. The room was higher up and thus had been spared the red lyrium growths that had taken over the lower levels. He suspected the rats must have fled here to take refuge from the growths below and starved to death. The room had gotten little more than a perfunctory check for glowing red clusters before being left in largely the state it was, which was frankly an unsanitary mess.
But despite the scattered dead vermin, the mess of moldering books and scrolls and the overpowering stench of death and decay, the room had its advantages. It was spacious as these rooms went, probably an office once as there was a desk and several shelves and cabinets. The desk was beyond repair - something had smashed it. But the shelves were intact and had some useful looking bits and bobs that he could salvage.
"It is a wonder a Gashadokuro has not appeared," he said softly, sparing the crunched carcass a pitying glance, before continuing his exploration.
He found the bodies behind a bookcase - a templar and a mage if the rusted armour and tattered robes were anything to go by. They were slumped down, huddled together under the safety of the book cases, and their bodies picked clean of flesh by hungry rats. The Medicine Seller knelt down, inspecting the skeletons - both women judging by the jawline - and one of them still held an open vial. Picking it up, he gave it a sniff.
Hemlock and wolfsbane. Or something similar. It would seem they'd poisoned themselves, opting to die together rather than on opposing sides.
"A lovers' suicide," he mused, perhaps to himself, perhaps to the sword tucked neatly in the sash around his middle.
b. rift them a new one
The Medicine Seller was not given to hard labour. The best that could be said about him was that he'd cleaned out the room he'd picked for himself and didn't protest too greatly if he got roped into helping others with their own cleaning.
But the rifts - he made himself more than a little useful there. The scales that seemed to measure distance rather than weight were particularly handy in pointing the way to nearby, active rifts. And his own abilities seemed tailor made for dealing with demons. He was incredibly skilled at blocking their way with his paper talismans or hindering their movements with some unseen yet powerful force - leaving them ripe for the picking to more offensive-minded combatants.
It probably seem strange that he carried a sword then. He certainly never unsheathed it, though he'd used it once or twice to block a blow from a particularly obstinate terror demon. It was a odd thing, short and thin, almost more a dagger than a sword. It seemed more decorative than functional but then again, so did the Medicine Seller, and he was quite at home in a supernatural scuffle. The sheath and handle were polished wood, stained red and inlaid with gold and gems. There was a strange, goblin-like head with eyes of amber on the handle. To the keen observer, the face seemed to subtly change expressions and sometimes its mouth was open, other times closed. Or perhaps it was a trick of the light.
One could not really say for certain
c. city living
Kirkwall was a mess. It was a tangle of poverty, prejudice, and dark secrets and forbidden things. Of course, that just so happened to be the kind of mess the Medicine Seller liked.
When he wasn't helping with the effort at the Gallows or volunteering for rift closings, he took to wandering. While the shard in his hand kept him on the same short leash as before, there was now so much more to explore.
There was a good number of merchants around the docks, and the Medicine Seller found he could make quite a pretty penny selling 'Old Dalish Remedies' and 'Mysterious Elven Artifacts' (their words, not his. He just wasn't above rolling with other's assumptions if it made his life little easier. And richer.)
He spent an obscenely large amount of time shopping for fish - one would think that in a port city it wouldn't be so much a feat to acquire them fresh, but apparently that just wasn't the case. Still, he managed, even if his keen nose had been thrown off a number of times by the overwhelming fish smell. He may have to invest in a pole and bait and simply catch his own - it seemed less effort.
Each day was a new adventure though. New sights, new sounds, new smells. He'd even ventured into the Hanged Man. He didn't buy a drink, however, because he was fairly certain that the beer being served, while whatever it was made of had certainly been fermented and distilled, it wasn't any grain he could tell.