The Young Apothecary

Nestled in the mountains that form a wall against the lush jungles, there exists a border town that is far south of it's capital city. In the narrow, tiered streets laid with pounded stone, the paths twist and turn among tall wooden buildings much in the way that the paths that lead to this town twist and wind and climb and drop. Throngs of strangers murmur business and greetings in an unfamiliar dialect, with some words that you know stirred in like spices you remember from childhood. Open air kitchens with sparse bar seating belch forth white steamy vapors of powerfully spiced food, incense smolders from second story windows. Down an even more narrow alleyway, you weave past sacks and barrels, crates, piles of castaway debris, till you come to the sunset red door with a hand painted sign that simply reads: Apothecary. 36 years practicing. You swing open the door to the shop. A bell chimes within. Thick pipe tobacco hovers in the air. The young apothecary fixes an eye on you and motions to one of two chairs at his stone countertop.