Empirical Gnollage: Installment 73 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment073.png]

Al returned the cloth gloves and thanked the old bookseller for his time. He told the man he might be back - he wasn't particularly good at politics or social networking, but the bookseller's comment about what might be learned from a noble's flattering biography struck him as good advice, especially since those were the sorts of people who were more likely to hire adventurers for the higher-paying jobs.

Al left the bookshop and continued down the street further, finally spotting the large glass window with "STATIONER - APOTHECARY" in gilded letters on it. He crossed the street, dodging assorted other visitors and a meat-pie vendor in a hurry, and pushed through the wooden door of the shop. A small bell attached to the inside of the door rang, alerting the prim middle-aged woman behind the sales-counter of his arrival. She wore plain, clean, white shirt, bonnet, and trousers. She adjusted the bun of greying brown hair atop her head that had a quill stuck in it, and gave Al a calculating examination over her spectacles while Al looked around at the shelves of writing supplies, inks, pigments, paints, brushes, bookbinding materials, and - behind the counter - a small selection of potions.

"You'll find our more utilitarian wares over there," she informed Al with polite detachment, pointing towards the least well-lit corner of the shop.

Al found himself more curious than offended at the shopkeeper's immediate assumptions about himself. "What makes you think I'm not here to buy supplies for gilding?" he asked. She stared intently at Al just long enough to make him feel uncomfortable, then relented.

"Since you seem to be asking in earnest," she explained, "I would begin with your hands and what you are wearing."

Al looked down at himself. He wore his usual traveling robes with his chainmail underneath. Everything was clean and in good repair, other than the tear in his left boot from the horrible bug-larva they'd fought in Aemilia's tomb. Too much of the boot had been dissolved away by the digestive acids of the thing to be able to fix it with a magic trick. Al looked at his hands as well, turning them over. They were clean, too.

"Your hands are clean, and look a bit rough to me, but not specifically in the places where a scribe would hold a writing implement or paint-brush. Your robes would suggest you are a scholar or scribe. They are plain but well-kept, which combined with your hands suggests you have more general labor in your lifestyle than a full-time reader or writer would, and that you are probably not wealthy. The chainmail I can see that you wear suggests you have concern for potential danger to yourself. The sword you wear seems to be a far more luxurious object than the rest of your presentation so I expect it is a gift, or possibly an old family heirloom. You make no effort to hide it, but I do not think you are trying to impress people with it, either. In my experience people who want to show off their swords will tend to rest their hands on them or unconsciously adjust the position of the belt or sheathe frequently to draw attention."

"Then we should further consider your observed behavior as well," the shopkeeper continued, "I saw you cross the street and you seem to have more awareness of your surroundings than one would expect from someone who sits at a desk quietly reading and writing all day. Nonetheless, when you came in you noticed me first, then bottles of inks and pigments, then the blank journals and writing implements before the medicines behind the counter, so you do clearly have some familiarity and interest in writing. I deduce that you are most likely a favored but illegitimate child of some noble, granted an education that would allow you to support yourself as a scribe but currently given enough of a stipend that you don't need to very often, and perhaps your funds are running low and you need to take on a simple job or two to raise them again, hence your need for less-luxurious and cheaper writing supplies. I suppose you could also be one of those adventurers, currently disguising yourself as a scholar or scribe. If that was the case, though, why would you be all the way down here instead of up in the northeast where most of the lucrative adventuring is currently taking place?"

It took Al a few moments to digest the long trail of observations and conclusions. He chuckled.

"Well, you're partly right at least. I don't spend all of my time doing wizardry, I'm also a warrior. The sword is a sort of gift, really, and, you're right, I'm looking for basic writing supplies for some wizardry experiments I'm working on."

"A wizard carrying a sword?"

"I did spend a year in the army, I'm not just a wizard. My group took up adventuring just a few weeks ago."

"If you're an adventurer, why are you as far as you can get from the region where most of the adventuring work is?"

"Well, we're pretty new at it, so we decided to start down here where there was less competition. With almost no active adventurers in the area, we can just about choose any of the available jobs that we want so we can start with some of the ones that seem less dangerous. The pay isn't always high but it gets us some experience and a way to earn a reputation before we head up to compete for the rich-people jobs."

The shopkeeper nodded slowly. "Prudent. You're very unusual, I don't often misjudge people. What brings you to a luxury resort like Hell's Bathtub?"

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

"The need for baths, really. Our last job got very, uh, unhygienic. Though I hear there is a job waiting here, too, which we'll probably stay around to do."

"Here? Do tell."

"I don't know if it's a supposed to be a secret but they didn't say so - apparently Hell's Bathtub wants to expand out to take over some older elven ruins south of here."

The shopkeepers eyes went wide, and she leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially.

"They say there's something unhappy in those ruins. I've heard it myself, once. I sometimes go out to the edge of the swamp to gather my own raw materials for some of the medicines and inks. I go at night, when the bloody swamp ferns are less active. I heard a sound from far off, like someone crying out wordlessly in frustration and despair from that direction."

"That's a little more than I knew before I came in, so thank you for that."

"Thank me by bringing some of the reward money back to my shop to pay full price for some supplies. Just for today, I'll give you a discount, perhaps whatever you're working on will help you survive."

In the end, Al still paid more than he was used to for a supply of inks and paper, but it was at least a discount from the marked prices.

As he packed up his purchased supplies, a thought struck Al.

"Do you ever buy alchemical ingredients rather than finding them yourself?" he asked.

"Sometimes. There are some things that are bothersome to produce or harvest myself, at least in the quantities that I need. Do you have something I might need?"

"Vinegar is a common ingredient in alchemical processes, isn't it?"

"It is, but it's not exactly rare or difficult to acquire."

"What about phosphorescent vinegar? Is that useful?"

"I've never heard of such a thing. How much do you have and where did you find it?"

"There was a winebarrel full of it down in the basement of an abandoned tavern we ran into about halfway through the bloodless swamp from Turnipseed."

Al saw the shopkeeper's skepticism on her face. "Yes, I know, nobody goes to Turnipseed," he told her, "The place really doesn't want visitors, but it was nearby and there was no competition for the job. Not wanting to go back to Turnipseed when we finished is how we ended up following the old road-signs to Hell's Bathtub through the swamp. There was an abandoned old tavern building by the road, and one of the few things left behind there was this barrel of vinegar with a sort of bluish-green glow."

Al thought he caught a glimpse of interest in the shopkeeper's facial expression for just a moment. "What did it smell or taste like?" she asked him.

"Mostly like any other vinegar, really, it was pretty strong. From what I remember, there might have been just a hint of mushroom and petrichor. We did use a little of it in a stew, but I can't promise that it's not poisonous since we had some divine influence protecting us in case it was."

"Well, that does sound interesting at least. I might be able to get some use out of such a thing. I'll need to examine it first of course, but if you do have a nearly-full barrel of it and it has the properties you are describing, I suppose I could pay twent..." the shopkeeper began to say, then groaned and closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her head.

"Are you all right?" Al asked with some concern.

"Fine, fine. As I was saying...fifty...," the shopkeeper paused, then opened her eyes and lowered her hand as whatever momentary indisposition she'd felt went away. "Fifty gold coins, if it meets my standards."

"I'll bring it by tomorrow for inspection, then, thank you," Al said, trying not to make it obvious that this was more than he'd expected to get for it.

They shook hands to informally finalize the deal, and Al returned to the main Hell's Bathtub building in hopes of finding their room again, which he managed to do with only one wrong turn down a side-hallway.

He completed his preliminary notes on how he might magically conjure a burst of flame. He was well into the more-advanced question of how he might add the attributes of fire to the darts of pure magical violence that he already knew how to conjure when Bote returned.

"It appears your quest into the world outside was a success," the dwarf noted, as Al concentrated on trying to inscribe a composite of arcane sigils into a corner of a piece of paper.

"Yes, I think so. Ah, there. That looks right," he said, putting down his stylus. "The apothecary offered to possibly buy that barrel of glowing vinegar we found for a fairly substantial amount of money, too, so I need to bring that over tomorrow. If nothing else it ought to cover what it's costing us to stay here for a few days if she does."

"As to that, I can add some more good news. There is a local temple dedicated to Praelectia and Mercator here. They were very grateful to hear of the texts we rescued from the imminently-collapsing tomb. They have offered a rather substantial reward if we would entrust them with the texts. I have not yet agreed, but I assume this would be amenable," Bote reported.

"I certainly don't mind, I can't read Elvish anyway and I'd rather they went to someone who will take care of them. We definitely could use the money, too. I wonder how Wikwocket and Gruntle are doing out there. I hope they're not going to get us kicked out or something."

"They have both taken the oath, they will have difficulty doing anything truly harmful intentionally, at least. Last time I spotted them, they were chasing each other around the village. They seemed to be experiencing some discomfort when they did so too close to the other visitors, so I imagine they will now keep a safe distance where they can annoy the nobility without violation of the oath."

"If I can find a safe place to try it, maybe I can distract her from her vendetta for a little while, and get her to stop nagging me about shooting magic fire from my fingers."

"Success, then?" Bote asked.

"I think so. I won't know for sure until I try it, though."