He rolled into town, his great gaudy wagon drawn by oxen rumbling and clattering into the cobblestone square. The ornate hand-painted signs on its sides screamed ‘Potions, Salves, and Curatives for All that Ails’. It wasn’t long before the townspeople were lining up, describing their symptoms, giving voice to their fears, focusing their hopes.
What he sold would help, for a time, long enough for him to be down the road and gone. When they started dying it he would be out of reach of their vengeance, and then when he returned, the empty town would be his to loot.
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