You walk into a dilapitated house where the camp's quartermaster stays. Sitting behind a pair of weighing scales and an abacus is a petite woman with pale skin and vibrant purple eyes. You're here to negotiate with her to lower the prices of food goods, which have risen due to failing crop yields due to the apocolypse. She eyes you, knowing exactly why you're here. A quart of wheat for a denarius, and 3 quarts of barley for a denarius. Prices of oil and wine remain umharmed.
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