There didn't seem to be much change in Vufrien. Not to the naked eye, at least. Folk were still starving on nearly every street corner you crossed, and business came in bursts of illness for tots and adults alike. Those who could afford his wares would seem like the tide, swelling through the doors and into the slightly cluttered isles seeking their elixirs. His stand of 'love potions' was now vacant, while a joke, he found it would be in poor taste in the current times. Not to mention that young ladies didn't often wander by after their lessons any longer either, his prime clientele for the sweet mixtures. There were still a few lounging on a shelf somewhere, among other vials that needed regular dusting in their long stay.

He barely glanced up as the bell over the door chimed a soft welcome. It was the same haggard elderly woman who came by nearly every day to get tonics for her husband. Like her, he was on in years, and was in bad health prior to the most recent massacres of Dunmeath, as such, he had refused to let their son go fight in the war, claiming that if one of them had to go and die, it should be him. His boy, honor bound as he was, had joined the righteous cause anyways, unable to stomach the sight of his neighbors, family and friends starving to skin and bone. He didn't make it home, however. His parents both held out a fool's hope that he had somehow made it out alive, his father's last sight of him being pinned under one of those monstrous corpse piles. It didn't prove particularly likely that he managed to free himself and also flee the following desolation of the province. But he supposed for them and those like them, that fool's hope was all they had left. That and the kindness of strangers and - in this particular case - herbalists specifically.

He would only close the sheets of paper as she neared, offering her a vague, crooked smile. "Well, are we seeing an improvement, Mrs. Lackley?" he inquired, turning to the work bench behind him. He began to automatically grind the ingredients for the salve he'd been making for the man's wound to help stave off infection. Many survivors had the same creeping affliction, assumedly from the contact of those wretched fetid creatures molded from the bodies of the dead. Slow to heal, quick to fester. "Oh, heavens, yes!" he could hear the enthusiastic bob of her head in her fluttery voice without turning to see it. "The smell's finally faded too! I'd reckon he's on the mend now." Before he could continue further, the door would once again ring and he would tilt his crown faintly, raising his chin to call over his shoulder that, "Welcome, I'll be with you in just a moment."

The older lady paused in her story telling as the bell chimed, and she would look up, giving the lady a beaming smile that wilted when combined with the depth of unspoken misery within her eyes. An expression Farron didn't need to see again to know it was there, just like always. Just like she came in every other day since the battle - the second installment that he knew of in this war between nations. A slight hum of musings rumbled through him in idle contemplation as his hands moved through what had become habit. He only paused when he heard another familiar voice, one he hadn't truthfully expected to entertain again to be honest. One long ear flicked and his hands paused briefly in their grinding, the paste partially formed beneath his efforts.

“T-take your time, Mr. Farron.” Ianthe would murmur, her intonation as dulcet and demure as he recalled, a sharp difference between the louder hymn of the elder woman - 'she didn't hear so well!' she would starkly inform if one would dare to question her sometimes absurd volume. He turned his head further in her direction to better address her, noting that it would appear her maid was missing from her side, an odd occurrence since the poor woman seemed fit to be tied being away from her in their meeting. "Ah, welcome, welcome. I see you found the place." He would briefly gesture to the counter before continuing with his task. "Is everything alright?" he would inquire, once again trying not to pry into business not his own, but unable to wholly mask his concern. He wasn't the bleeding heart his father was, but it was still not within him to turn a blind eye to suffering he could ease. Sometimes it was a regretful quality, came the bitter reminder of when he had run with Hui's gang.

But that was no longer his business. At least for the most part.

Mrs. Lackley continued in her tales, greeting her fellow shopper enthusiastically before her voice would lower, if but just faintly - closer to a proper speaking level for the indoors - to speak of the rumors of ships upon the horizon. The very same sails that the news letter had remarked about. Supposedly it was possible that an uprising was on the precipice. One way or another, she claimed, the king would be forced to take responsibility for his elongated inaction. She would snort, crossing her arms as the potionist turned, settling the two vials of rather vile looking medicine upon the counter. "I tell ye, offering some land now ain't enough to right the wrongs. Not that many a farmer's even left to claim it - most of 'ems already in the dirt, starved off first once they couldn't sell the crops they couldn't grow." Farron would mirror her position, another flick of his ear causing the decorum of metal and feathers to dance erratically. Both would repeat the action when he noted the woman staring at them as she often did. He hoped she didn't ask to pet them, she hadn't so far, but it wouldn't be the first time someone had. "I personally don't care much for the politics. As long as they leave my shop alone." He knew the woman had a sore spot regarding Oliver, and with the loss of her son and possibly her husband, she supposed he couldn't entirely blame her. Resisting the urge to raise a shoulder in vague dismissal, he instead pushed the bottles closer toward her. "Anyroad, here we are." A faint smile touched his mouth as she placed a container of her own on the counter. The contents clear, almost like water. A good quality of alcohol, perhaps the best he'd had here, and strong enough to make all the difference when normally such brews would have no effect.

He took it and placed it under the counter, and she would give an awkward curtsy to both he and Ianthe before she departed with a final 'thank you' and 'farewell'. Once the door chimed again, he would allow his full attention to land on his other guest. "Sorry 'bout that. What brings you here?"

"What an interesting character." Hummed his other guest once the first had wholly departed. The lines of his lips twitched upwards slightly, as his hands busied themselves with idly cleaning up after himself. The motions had become routine habit, no longer necessary to split his focus with, at least for the most part. "She's had a rough go since the war. Think she's mostly just lonely." He would add in the last bit on a slight sigh. The woman would often times come in and babble away about her days to him, from idle chores to tending to her husband to the rearing of her son. After all, in his current state, even though he had made it back home, her husband was in shambles. For the most part, he was unable to speak, and their coffers weren't deep enough to afford the attention of a doctor. So the small remedies he could afford her were all the help the elder could get. Sometimes, he regretted not having better knowledge in the fields of medics, but at the end of the day, he knew enough to be of some use to people like he Lackleys and the woman who currently stood before him as well.

The basket she'd been carrying was placed gently onto the counter top, her cheeks flushing softly. "I was simply stopping by." She murmured, and he had no real reason to doubt her, not having seen her since the night of their messy arrival. He had wondered if they had found a place to settle in, or if in the long run they had continued on to other lands. Especially given the fact that in recent day, the whole of Vufrien had become largely unwelcoming. It didn't seem the kind of area that he would seek to remain in should he have happened upon it when he'd fled his homeland. A shame such a change had transpired. The tavern was a place he had frequented quite often, and despite his few askance of them, the owner had insisted he hadn't seen them since, so he'd already made his assumption. "Surprised to still see you around here. Find a place worth settling?" Recalling the words of his previous customer, he would tilt his head. "Sounds like you could get a place easily enough in recent day."

His simper only grew as she sheepishly nudged the basket towards him, looking far too serious of the matter. "I baked you a loaf. It... It did not take the shape I had hoped but Jocelyn walked me through it." His ears would perk up faintly at the mention of food, noting that it was about time for lunch after all. Squaring away his mortar and the basin of spring water, he would lift the lid of the offered basket. "T-the herbs, I grew - I've been studying botany and gathered you could make use of them." His gaze lifted from the menagerie to her countenance once again, "Ah, really? If you've an interest in it, you could always come by the shop to learn." His attention would only briefly flicker to the side door behind the counter that parted enough to allow in his aid and he would sniff slightly, "I could always use a helping hand who actually knows what they're doing." The teasing remark was met by the sharp huff of the man as he passed by into the storage room with a crate. Hopefully the parcel contained the cleansed vials he'd requested.

Sorting through the bundles of herbs, he'd give them a good appraisal at the very least. They weren't overly wilted, nor were they damaged beyond use - in fact, he had to applaud her light hands. That was until he saw what must be the loaf she'd also brought. It certainly didn't look like any 'loaf' he'd ever seen before, but... well it didn't smell horrible, and if the elder woman had helped her, surely it would be safe to eat, no? He cleared his throat, though it did nothing to alleviate the damaged gravel of his vocals, "These are all very nicely harvested. You've taught yourself well." Despite its misshapen appearance, at his touch, he found the bread to be quite soft after all and a bit of relief settled along his shoulders. "Mm - I was about to get some lunch, would you care to join me?"