"My name is Wilson Koorb. It is the Fourteenth day of Trescia. The fifth hour of this morn witnessed me rise with a mind of clouds. Nay, to say my mind was so transparent as to be empty, would be most correct.
"My timekeeper reported an hour's deviance from my usual time of rising before I stirred. Upon doing so, I acknowledged transparent patches on my hands as I downed the day's charge- an arduous task. Taste aside, the sludge resisted flowing through the apparatus designed to facilitate its consumption. Size constraints aside, tipping the cauldron into my maw risked impalement by the giant's nails. Thus I resorted to… other means."
I glanced at my favored pen, scribing away in my journal before peeking at the hated cauldron. Twice the size of all the others and eight times as filthy by virtue of the four putrid giant’s nail clippings used to brew the concoction. I nearly lost my stomach simply thinking about it. And so, there was no use in mentioning what occurred during the cleanup. Other than the first results, of course.
A clean lab made for a clean mind. A mind at ease and braced for the burns brought on by the day. Already, the memories of that putrid brew were burning away to make room for new memories. New experiments. New brews.
New notes.
I moved from my bath as quickly as my seasoned knees would allow and found my favored pen waiting patiently above the parchment. A gift from the Knighilian President, it was. Gifted to me decades ago after providing aid to a pandemic in our neighboring country. My prized possession, since the day I discovered its dual functionality. It was not sentient like so many believed. And a good thing too, for I would want not a pen nor parchment to chatter or seek discourse while I worked. I would speak. It would write. That was the deal. Unsaid and unwritten since the day we met.
"Reminder to the Author: Purchase a new chalice immediately." I felt a shudder come over me, accompanying a sick memory once thought to be purged. "The current time is forty-two minutes past the seventh hour of the morn. I report no changes in strength whilst cleaning the abode. As expected of cauldron duties. As I suspect brewing tomorrow's charge will yield. Thus I note my intentions of venturing into the parks or around the farms to test my strength on some boulders and logs the moment the chosen brew is complete.
"I have decided it will be a quintuple-duration potion of levitation. I will begin at once. Stomachaches notwithstanding."
The tinkering stage went off without a hitch. Thus I emerged several hours later, prepped and shielded from the day's hurdles to let the brew simmer in private.
It took not long for them to begin.
"Hey, Will! What's on the brewing menu today, a Potion of Rat's Ass Breath?"
Ignoring the laughter and nose-blocking gestures of the common man, I simply waved. "Stone Giant Strength!"
"Oh, give us a show again, Will!" Another alchemist, the oldest of them called. "I've been praying for you to spew fire all over the city again. I'm sure we could all use another remodel!"
While some solace was given by the Bright Bridge, the jeers only continued once I crossed into the harbor district.
"Oh, no gills on Will today." One dockworker mocked. "Shame, I dropped some tools in the drink."
"I remember one time, he fell outta the sky." A merchant in mid-sale with me remarked to another patron, refusing to hand off my chalice until he bellowed. "Right into the ocean, he went! Lucky he could bend water, else he wouldn't be here."
Nearly everywhere I stepped, I heard it. From everyone. Children. Barkeeps. Random passersby. And worst of all, my fellow alchemists. It was the same ridicule as it had been for decades upon decades. My glory days were long gone. But there were some places where I could find solace still. Beyond the western gates was one such place. The farmers usually watched from afar, only approaching to confront the suspicious or interesting oddity that occurred every so often. This day was no different. They tended to their crops and beasts of burden with practiced movements while their eyes remained on the lithe old man heaving boulders overhead. And when one approached, many followed.
"What are you doing, old man?"
Damned youths! With his fat face and messy hair. No respect for their elders. "I'll have you know I'm seventy-two and still spry, boy!" I heaved a massive boulder overhead, scowling to bring the point home. Only for it to be deflected by the most calming voice.
"That's Sir Wilson Koorb. Hedge Wizard and Alchemist. The other artificers don't like him much but, he's alright in my book. Hedge wizards are more impressive than regular wizards."
"Kindred spirits, you and I, Amos." I tossed the rock down with a great crash, dusted my palms, and shook the half-elven man's hand; a self-made man, born of meager circumstances but one who made something of himself through hard work. "The self-taught are the most resilient, are we not?"
"Are you even evolved?" the other boy asked. He had to be a full decade younger than Amos but had most likely been farming since he could stand. Round, but with muscle. Skin aged like leather and tanned dark on only the face and arms.
"I am not." I proudly shook my head. "That is what it means to be a Hedge Witch or Wizard. My earlier renown, however, came from alchemy. I am studious but unevolved in both. I have no certifications or degrees. Yet my studies have led to revolutionary alchemical discoveries in increasing the potency and longevity of charges- potions. Today, I survive on the pensions granted by those discoveries, making my rivals envious; leaving my pride, unfulfilled. And so it will remain until I realize my dream.
"Much like you, eh, Amos?"
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The young man only shrugged, not even hesitating to give his answer. "Not until I can make sure these guys are taken care of. And maybe send 'em off with some gold to boot. But, yeah. I'm going to be an artist!"
"That's good and all, but I like farming." The round boy shrugged carelessly. "Cities are too loud. The farms are nice and quiet. It’s hard, sure, but it feels good seeing the reward for all my hard work come harvest. Just wish I could grow food instead of faerie flax." He chortled to himself as he looked to the ground, joining the silent club shared between me and Amos. Then he turned his gaze up after a few moments. "What about you, Sir Koorb?"
"Oh," I waved dismissively, "my dream is one deemed an impossibility in the alchemical world. With one grave exception that is beyond taboo." I grimly mentioned, hoping they got the hint. "My dream is to create a potion with permanent effects.
"But alas." I sighed heavily, cutting off any notions of the impossible swiftly and thoroughly. "Drinking so many potions has proven to be detrimental to my health. Yet another discovery of mine: Alchemical Toxicity. In other words, my end is nigh. Thus I devote myself every day to realizing my dream before I finally keel over. I keep tinkering. I keep working. Damn what the others say! If there is any advice this old soul can give to you lads, it’s this: Follow the desires of the heart in such a way that, if anyone is to be harmed, it is only yourself."
Giving each of them a bow, I stepped down the path. "I bid you a good day!"
Oh, how I wanted to keep experimenting. But if those boys, Amos, and that unnamed lad, ridiculed me like all the rest, I feared my soul couldn't bear the shame. Thus to make some compromise, I stuffed rocks in my pack and pockets to make a crude measurement of when the potion wore off. From there, I made a detour through empty alleys and shaded back roads to enter my second-favorite place, unseen.
Within seconds, a familiar voice rang out. "The usual?"
"As per." I smiled, looking up to see a long-eared man with dog-like cheeks that hung loosely from equal parts age and fat.
Though his skin was deeply tanned, his hair was both naturally and unnaturally stark white like his clothes, and clumps of flour and dough scattered across his arms and face. His gray eyes stared intently at me pulling a stool beneath me with deliberate caution. Then he flicked his pointer at me. "Stone Giant Strength." He correctly mused, then turned around laughing while I threw a silver coin on the counter, as was tradition.
"You're the only one who plays this game, Marsha." I shook my head when he returned with my sustenance charges. A long loaf and some butter to be paired with my salted meat and cheese. Plus a glass of fine wine.
"And yet, you pay along!" The High Elf laughed at himself, playfully waving the coin between us.
"There's a reason for that, you know." I laughed, feigning reluctance. "You serve the best bread I've had in my life."
He broke out in rambunctious laughter while I sipped happily on my wine, for we both knew the real reason. We've been thick friends since we were boys. 'Bread baking is a bit like alchemy,' he'd always say, 'only different ingredients.' Perhaps it was that outlook that made him different from all the others- even Amos- for I knew Marsha would never turn his back on me.
"So, what's the word on the river today?" I asked, despite him being in mid-transaction with a customer. I only tended to my meal, awaiting his inevitable return.
"Nothing new." Came the reply moments later. "Only more rumors regarding the so-called ArcaTech and the clump of rock above Shujen. They say the land is ruled by the dead, now. Sentient, benevolent undead. An artificer claims he went there and was guided to a testing ground by a zombie that contained no evil, where he was encouraged to fire his machinations upon its zombie companions."
"It's so ridiculous I can hardly believe it. And it's the least of the rumors still." I dryly laughed, rolling my eyes. "Some are even claiming he's a God and say his guild is led by his Demigods."
"What say you?" Marsha chuckled, though it remained unclear if he was amused by me or the common opinion.
"Hmm," I mumbled. "Let's look at the details. There are rumors of him facing a dragon last year but no one saw it happen. There's the big tree of darkness incarnate he created. All those pillars of rock rose into the sky, turning into the spheres and points of light that remain in the heavens today. Mentions of this… Legio Noctis began popping up everywhere. And then there's the fact that he became famous in a tenday- more infamous than being the Necro King's great-grandson made him. His vassal, this... Edward Pascal has carriages that drive themselves and his master has a product line of spatially enchanted storage containers, communications devices, and enchantments that can lift a building into the sky.
"Thus my answer is this. I would have to meet him to give you an accurate answer." I unceremoniously shrugged, a smug grin on my face that grew wider as Marsha rolled his eyes.
"Those devices are greater than any Bag of Hoarding I've heard of. They're temperature-controlled, timeless, and virtually infinite. I've got a mountain range of bread that'll stay fresh for a thousand years." He boasted, and I had to admit their worth.
"I admit to acquiring one from a third party in exchange for several potions. He only got rid of it due to purchasing a larger one. A small box, it is. But it holds all of my alchemical ingredients. But the others, I remain skeptical about." I added. "Any device capable of such powerful scrying makes eavesdropping an ease for the seller."
"Having one's light pour from the night sky isn't enough, I suppose, but so too is that true for the buyer." Marsha countered with a knowing grin. "Imagine such a device used here. I could bring my patrons entertainment from across the Known Realms whilst allowing me to identify and track potential thieves."
"I'll concede when I see it." I quipped.
A few more moments of conversation saw my meal finished and my departure acknowledged. Then I was back on the arduous trek to the lab, emptying my pack pockets while blind eyes and muted ears faced the onlookers. Only when that door of wood and iron sealed shut behind me did my eyes open to reality, finding my favored pen waiting for me above its beloved parchment.
As per our agreement, I began to speak, prompting it to scribe.
"I will begin the final testament of this day by stating tomorrow's charge shall be a potion of haste brewed with the finest materials in my collection. I will use every technique I have developed to increase the potency over the longest possible duration. I hope this will provide latency in the perceived dosage, resulting in the common effect lasting for… according to my calculations, seventy-eight hours.
"Let it be known, this otherwise drastic brew was birthed from the revelations born by today's charge wearing off. It was shortly before the ninth hour of the evening when I departed Marsha's Bakery. The day's charge wore off shortly thereafter, prompting me to empty the weight I put on to measure the effect. Within minutes of that act, I began to feel sluggish, frail, and fatigued. And then I grew insatiable. It is now thirty minutes past the tenth hour of the evening. In the approximate time between my arrival and now, I have consumed over half of my food stores. I am now stable, though I have lost considerable weight.
"This has led to a new hypothesis regarding the energy source of potions being sourced from the body, rather than from the brew, as previously thought. Perhaps both, with there being some threshold before vital energy is taken. In this case, the charge would simply be a catalyst for a temporary evolution. The more ever-lasting the evolution, the greater the backlash. If my stock of Fae, divine, and extra-planar ingredients does not achieve this result. I will concede the ever-lasting evolution to be an impossibility. If in the event I do not perish first. The potion will take three days to complete.
"I am to begin at once."