The rock hits the old man just above his eyebrow.
Elint stumbles backward from the force of the impact. His feet tangle in some pottery bowls stacked up in front of a merchant’s stand. Elint tries to steady himself on his cane but can’t find his balance in time. He goes over with a mighty crash, several of the dishes breaking in the process. His milk bladder, newly paid for and topped off, flings through the air as he tumbles over his back. It lands in the dirt a second after he does, the contents pulsing out and soaking into the ground.
Elint coughs, both to try and catch the breath knocked out of him and evacuate the dust he inhaled during his spill. Staring up into the sky, he lets out a low groan as the aches of his weathered body cry out in protest. As the sound tapers off a new one takes its place. Laughter.