"Wulf. I have an order to collect. Thank you."
The knight deposited the sack of gil upon the counter top with a soft clink. The apothecary, an ageing, skinny and stooped Midlander man who squinted at her from behind his spectacles, nodded and turned toward the back of his stall.
Brynhilde leaned wearily on the counter as the early morning commotion of the exchange fluttered all around her. The long journeys back-and-forth between Ul'dah and Ishgard were taking their toll. Naturally she'd not admit it, but she ached. When she wasn't travelling, she was working; it was no mean feat to keep Cliffperch stocked with food for her charges, and to keep 'Bharfyst' fed and warm. But it was getting no easier, and so Bryn had resolved to work harder. Somehow.
It was as she mused upon her money woes that her eyes settled upon a discarded copy of the Lantern sat atop the counter. She frowned and flipped it over. Staring back at Bryn was that picture; the one that had sparked all the friction between herself and her man, and had caused their worst argument in moons. The Highlander woman, the 'Sultansworn' as Bryn knew her, looked back at her from the picture. With a sneer and a disdainful scoff, Brynhilde tossed the paper away.
"Harlot."
The knight deposited the sack of gil upon the counter top with a soft clink. The apothecary, an ageing, skinny and stooped Midlander man who squinted at her from behind his spectacles, nodded and turned toward the back of his stall.
Brynhilde leaned wearily on the counter as the early morning commotion of the exchange fluttered all around her. The long journeys back-and-forth between Ul'dah and Ishgard were taking their toll. Naturally she'd not admit it, but she ached. When she wasn't travelling, she was working; it was no mean feat to keep Cliffperch stocked with food for her charges, and to keep 'Bharfyst' fed and warm. But it was getting no easier, and so Bryn had resolved to work harder. Somehow.
It was as she mused upon her money woes that her eyes settled upon a discarded copy of the Lantern sat atop the counter. She frowned and flipped it over. Staring back at Bryn was that picture; the one that had sparked all the friction between herself and her man, and had caused their worst argument in moons. The Highlander woman, the 'Sultansworn' as Bryn knew her, looked back at her from the picture. With a sneer and a disdainful scoff, Brynhilde tossed the paper away.
"Harlot."
