The Writings of John Beachem
The brother and sister duo moved into the shambling mass of outcasts, the desperate, or the flat-out insane, known as Crossroads in a rickety wagon filled with clinking glass, shards of metal, bizarre smells, and piles of animals. One man attempted to rob the unusual pair, thinking the cackling, plump little woman and her harmless-looking brother would be easy pickings. Daspri threw something at him and laughed maniacally as the man burst into flames so hot they melted the rock on which he stood. No one has bothered them, since.
The siblings turned a ramshackle mass of wood into a ramshackle mass of wood, glass, and metal, and called it home. Everyone gave the screeching, shuddering structure a wide berth, though people did occasionally venture there when word spread that the residents had a knack for healing wounds and supplying information on how to survive. Sometimes their potions and pastes worked. Sometimes they did not. Sometimes they did horrible, horrible things to those who tried them. If one is in Crossroads, and is dying of blood loss, flesh rot, or a fever, one can pray for some sort of magical healing rain, or one can petition Alex & Daspri for aid. One is very nearly as good as the other.