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WHO: The Medicine Seller and You!
WHAT: Various starters
WHEN: Throughout March/Drakonis
WHERE: Kirkwall proper and surrounding areas
NOTES: Will update as needed

KIRKWALL

a. The Gallows Living Quarters - Spring Cleaning---

His old room seemed to be unexpectedly intact. It was true that most of the potions and poultices and herbs had either been given to the infirmary or tossed out, and the more expensive tools and knickknacks he'd acquired on his previous adventures in Thedas had been sold. No great loss - the Medicine Seller collected things like a magpie - the room would soon be cluttered with all his nonsense again.

Not that he'd asked about having it back. It had been his before, and he doubted any roommate(s) would appreciate the late nights where he was mixing strange and pungent ingredients. It seemed a good enough reason to him and protocol was not his strong suit anyway.

The only problem was that it looked like it hadn't been dusted in nearly the year he'd been gone. Which was a better state it was in than when he first came here. Silver lining and all that.

The shelves and the low table and desk were vigourously dusted, along with every other corner and crevice of the room. He'd taken a broom and mop to the floor while the thick rugs hung out the windows to have the dust shaken out of them. Cobwebs were swept away and any remaining spiders were gently but firmly sent off into the wide world outside to make their fortune. Within the afternoon, it was spotless, though the same could not be said of the Medicine Seller who looked uncharacteristically dirty and disheveled.

b. The Gallows Library - Bookworm---

The Medicine Seller was not ideal to have in the library. Not because he was particularly noisy or disruptive - on that front he was the perfect guest. The problem was literally everything else. The Medicine Seller's method of research was to pick out every book he found interesting, select one, start reading, come upon something he didn't know or understand, and then get up to go dig up any potential books on the matter, open one up, read until he got to something else he didn't know or understand, rinse and repeat.

Needless to say his workspace was cluttered. And there he was, sprawled out in a comfy armchair, smoking contentedly with the book you need in the absolute mountain of materials he hadn't yet touched.

c. Lowtown Markets - Remedies to Mend---

The Medicine Seller sometimes set up shop here. He had no stall or sign - usually he just picked whatever spot on the side of the road that he could squeeze into and laid out his wares on a cloth. He didn't shout across the market square either - he was quite quiet and demure, simply watching the passersby. That being said, the bottles and jars and boxes and little paper packets were all bright and colourful and strange, that there were a good number who stopped to browse, and even occasionally purchase something.

...Much to the chagrin of the neighboring alchemist who redoubled his efforts in yelling people over to his stall and casting nasty looks to his unwanted neighbor who seemed, for all the world, utterly oblivious.

SUNDERMOUNT

a. Sundermount Base - Sprouting---

Early spring at the foot of the mountain was terribly inviting to someone like the Medicine Seller, and he made regular treks along the deer trails to enjoy the clean air and absence of the city noise. More than just needing to get away from the walls of the city, he also needed to replenish his stock, and many young herbs would be in bloom this time of year. Sighting a bit of greenery from the corner of his eye, his choice to trek out this early in spring was validated.

"Ah... fuki."

No he wasn't swearing. Among the dull grays and browns of the dead or drowsing foliage, there were splotches of vibrant green; butterbur shoots. He uprooted a number of the bulbous shoots, examining each one like it was some precious treasure, before wrapping them in a cloth and stowing them away in the recesses of the medicine pack.

b. South of Sundermount - Hanami (Late Drakonis)---

At this time of year, he'd have made his way north from Okinawa to Hanshu, following the blooming of the trees. He didn't have the luxury of chasing such fancies in Thedas - the anchor in his hand saw to that. Regardless, when he got out the city, he made it a point to take a route where trees were blooming. There weren't many but the Free Marches were far enough north that a few snowy white buds and blooms had popped up in the overgrown orchard of an abandoned farmstead.

It was odd that it had been left so long. The land here seemed good, albeit overgrown. He was no farmer, however. Perhaps something he didn't know had soured the place. Though given that it was wedged between a city of horrors, a mountain of dark tales and half a day's trek to the Bone Pit, it was likely something much more in the Medicine Seller's purview that had kept anyone from reclaiming the property.

But he had time enough to satisfy his curiosity. There was the much more pressing matter that this was the first burst of warmth in weeks, and he hadn't had a smoke all day.

The pipe was produced from the folds of his robe, lit, and the smoke inhaled as he watched the decrepit old farmhouse, his eyes unblinking.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You know. Mages, elves, everyone else." A quick glance at the Medicine Seller's ears, and he seems a little embarrassed. "...no offense. But the way we sort ourselves seems predicated on what gifts are granted us by magic, and the way magic has worked in the past."

He doesn't look particularly offended. It is, after all, not his offense to take. He wasn't an elf, however much he looked like one. Not that he would correct the mistake though - people saw what they wanted to see. He'd passed for human in his own world for centuries and there were many more tells to his appearance there than here.

"How," he asks slowly, an amused quirk to his lips, "has magic worked in the past?"

"Well," Benedict proceeds, in a more scholarly air, "they say magic was given to man by the Old Gods themselves, which empowered our dominion over the living world. There's little accounting for how the elves got ahold of it, but the rise and fall of the Tevinter Imperium was predicated entirely on who had access to magic and who didn't."

He curls his fingers, inspecting his nails as he speaks. "The Exalted Marches were what broke up the old Imperium and made the South as it was until recently, with mages collared and holed up in little towers. People fear us." He looks up again, and back to the Medicine Seller with a little smirk, "and perhaps they're right to."

"No, I do not think so," he said softly, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"In my home, in the western countries, there was a war. Gas and bombs, tanks and trenches. Men fell in the millions to storms of bullets. People do not need magic to find inventive ways of slaughtering each other."

He met Benedict's gaze with his own, frigid and cold.

"And the Chantry found a way to leash that power for centuries. Such a thing is far more frightening."

The smirk dwindles, and Benedict watches him carefully, confusedly. Bombs, tanks? Bullets? None of these words mean anything to him, and he isn't certain if they're supposed to.

"...I don't understand the comparison," he says after a moment, a little indignantly.

"If such a thing happens in your world, it will be a long time off," he said with a shrug.

"Though from what I have heard, the Qunari weapons bear some semblance."

A small shudder follows-- the Qunari have dogged the nightmares of many a Tevene for some time, even (especially?) those of one who has never seen the war in person.
"What do they do?" he asks, more solemnly, "these weapons."

"They kill," he explained. What else would you expect them to do? Make a nice, hot cup of tea?

"As you said, someone always has to be at the top. Even if it is a mountain of corpses. That is the natural order, isn't it?"

"...so does an arrow," Benedict mutters, pouting, but recognizes he's likely not about to get a straight answer.
"I don't know. Mass slaughter doesn't necessarily mean rightness. It's about... it's about how power is used."

"Oh? And how would you use such power?" he asked, leaning back in his seat and surveying Benedict with that chilly, unblinking stare.

The directness of the question is slightly alarming in itself, but moreso is the fact that Benedict realizes he doesn't know. The aforementioned power, even that which is allotted to members of the Imperial Senate, has never been even a little bit within his grasp-- that would mean his mother is gone, and frankly, perish the thought.

Because. Maybe he doesn't want to do it.

He flounders for a moment or two, looking profoundly uncomfortable with his inability to come up with a decent answer. Have lots of money? Make people do things? Start or influence wars?

"...I'd... always be safe," he stammers, and knows as soon as the answer leaves his mouth that it's pathetic.

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