The stained parchment detailing Sidwell's first sale remains upon his desk.
"Attwater-- three barrels. Morstoke Village. Don't forget. We paid you already."
After sipping the last few molecules of beer out of his mug, sucking the life out of the tip, he heads outside, where his cart -- conveniently loaded with three barrels of rum -- stood waiting for him.
On the road, Sidwell thought deeply. Who would've known that the leader of a group trying to prevent alcohol-addiction doubled as an alcohol-merchant? His compatriots didn't. They knew Sidwell solely as S.A. The group strived the maintain their anonymity in the attempt to circumvent their addiction to alcohol. Sidwell related with another member the most-- he went by the name of A.T.C the Third. He was but a peasant pissing away his profits to the purchase of beer and rum almost every single night. Yet now, A.T.C the Third was a paragon of virtue, thanks to Sidwell's group.
Something in his heart told him that both trading beer and trying to prevent its consumption was morally wrong. Yet Sidwell was far too young and ambitious to think about such ethical issues. He simply saw the money, and went towards it.
He'd be identified by the sight of a wineskin in his left hand, and an empty mug of beer in his left, seemingly nailed to his skin. He takes orders to this day.
