All in a Planes Shift
A Traveling Apothecary and Practitioner of Withcraft
Miss Blackmoore stands, a looming figure by lamplight, at a sharp six feet tall. Her long hair pools down her shoulders like fresh ink. Something creeps off her skin, intangible, but present in an unsettling manner. Perhaps it is the still, barbed curve of her smile, or the pointed ends of her fingers. Maybe it is her mismatched eyes, one somber grey, and the other a keen pickled green.
But it is her baring the most, that gives the feeling. The dead stillness of her posture, like a corvid posed at any moment to take flight. The prolonged drumming of her fingers while waiting- an unseen and unheard minor key. The surprising caw of her Raven companion, most often perched on her staff or her shoulder…
It was only just recently that the caravan arrived. Bright and vibrant colors, faded gently from travel, adorned it as all sides. Pulled by two strong draft horses, it stopped near the edge of town, adorned with a simple sign:
Blackmoore’s Travelling Apothecary
Balms Brewed, Witchcraft woven