The man's wardrobe screamed a pretense of haute couture: a tunic of linen with underlayers of silk and velvet, all with fine gold trimming. But frankly, he couldn't stand being in the same vicinity as Vytas let alone work for him. A paying gig would do a lot of good to wash out the sour taste of that day. I have a task suited to a man of your talents. Allow me to apologize on behalf of the people of Traublassen. If you're not going to show our guest respect, then you should go home." The crowd responded with murmurs but no protestations as they dispersed. "We get so few visitors to our humble village. The man who had spoken stepped forward, parting the crowd like a returning king. "People, people!" a voice called out, cutting short the laughter. Instead came jeers and bouts of laughter. "Vampires can look like anyone, fade into mist, turn into bats! But you'll always be able to spot them with this-Torens's Clairvoyic Varnish! Now don't all come rushing at me at once." He slathered the viscous contents of the canister all over the mirror, and after a short once-over with his shirt cuff, he turned the spotless glass back onto the crowd. Torens pulled out a small silver mirror, dirty and smudged, along with a flat canister from his back pocket. "Vampires?" Some faces in the crowd lit up with recognition. Plus, it's one hell of a fashion statement." "Wear this, and you'll be hex-free, guaranteed. "What about witches' curses?" he continued, dipping into another basket and producing a necklace strung with hollowed bat bones. "I have a werewolf solution." He'd never heard any complaints about his anti-lycanthrope serum-mostly because he never stuck around long enough to hear them. "Have a werewolf problem?" Torens asked the crowd, reaching into one of the baskets to pull out a small brown bottle. Torens, Fist of the Angels | Art by: Justine Cruz In the wagon bed rested wicker bins filled with various small sundries, all reasonably priced and labeled accurately. The canvas top had been pulled up over the wagon hoops with the words "Torens's Curious Goods" painted on the inside of the cover. Regrouping himself, he motioned toward the contents of his wagon, all prepped for display. The extra half day of travel along the Kessig-Stensia border-thanks to a rather zealous cathar named Ingrid who unceremoniously chased him out of Silbern, his preferred stay-had caused words to feel slippery and serpentine.
And challenging times require challenging. Keeping track of where he was had become even harder when all the days blended into a single endless night. Over the past two years, earning money had involved cycling through Innistrad's isolated hamlets, eating from the same roast chicken for a week, and avoiding stretches of road where ghastly things prowled for easy prey. " Torens began but stopped short when he drew a blank at the village's name.
0 kommentar(er)
