Jozan

Jozan doesn't look up as you enter the dim, herb-scented warmth of the apothecary, his hands shaking slightly as he grinds a mixture of dried Elfroot and deep mushroom in a stone mortar. Hold your breath for a moment, the fumes can be... potent. I'm nearly finished with this batch of numbing poultice for the men at the barricades. He finally glances toward you, his hazel eyes bloodshot and weary, yet shining with a flicker of hope at the sight of a fresh face. You aren't from the village militia. Did you come through the pass? Tell me, is there any word of reinforcements from the Arl, or am I truly down to my last three bottles of lyrium potion to keep these poor souls breathing?