Empirical Gnollage:Installment 94 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment094.png]
With the meeting with the magistrate was still a few hours away, Al suggested that they go out to take care of some errands and find some food. This got Gruntle's attention and successfully distracted Wikwocket from speculation about the joys of magically-aided forgery.
"If you bring your jug of goblin death-stench, maybe we can get the apothecary to figure out what's in it," Al suggested.
Everyone who wasn't named "Gruntle" dressed themselves appropriately to be seen in public, Wikwocket pushed down on the stopper of the goblins' jug to make certain it wouldn't come loose and choke everyone to death, and they all made their way out of the building in search of breakfast. They were greeted outside by birdsong, sunlight cutting through the morning fog, and excited barking. Al spotted the woman in the well-tailored but plain black trousers and jacket of a servant taking the mastiff for a walk again. This time the dog was excitedly pulling at the end of the leash in their direction. Al wasn't particularly an expert on canine behavior, but as far as he could tell this one was being eager and friendly rather than aggressive. He was a little surprised, considering how most other domesticated animals seemed to feel in Gruntle's presence so far.
"No, Darling," the dog-walking servant insisted, pulling back on the thin leash. Al thought it might break against the pull of the large dog, but instead the mastiff whined and sat down. Typical for the breed, this one looked as though she had too much skin, and the droopy face resulting from this fact made her look completely pathetic. "That's better," the dog-walker said, stepping forward to scratch the dog gently behind the ears. Darling the mastiff panted happily and watched the adventurers. She seemed especially interested in Gruntle, perhaps mistaking the gnoll for a very large dog. "Don't worry, she's well-trained. You're in no danger," the dog-walker assured them.
"Neither are you, I think," Al replied, looking back and forth between Gruntle and the mastiff.
"She seems to have taken an interest in you, do you mind if she comes closer?" asked the dog-walker.
Worry over what awful things might happen if the dog and the gnoll got near each other warred with curiosity and lost. "I guess that should be okay," Al answered.
"Politely," the dog-walker urged, tugging lightly back on the leash, and then allowed the mastiff to walk forward. This time the dog showed some self-restraint, approaching at a calmer pace. The mastiff slowed to let Wikwocket reach up to scratch behind her ears and call her "good doggie!" Bote did likewise.
"She seems quite attentive," the dwarf remarked.
"She's well-bred and well-raised," the dog-walker explained. The mastiff allowed Al to scratch behind her ears as well, then pushed past gently but insistently to get to Gruntle. She got in close and began sniffing eagerly around Gruntle's legs, and Al watched nervously as Gruntle crouched down and leaned forward to put his face near the dog's.
Al groaned and put a hand over his own face in embarrassment as Gruntle began sniffing back.
"Politely," the dog-walker insisted again, coaxing the dog away from the gnoll before the sniffing could get too mutual. "My apologies, Darling seems to be fascinated by your tall companion," she told Al, "Thank you for letting her greet you. Come now, Darling, we're nearly out of time and I'm sure these fine people have their own matters to attend to.
The mastiff gave a single happy bark in the gnoll's direction, and then the dog-walker led her away into the morning fog at a brisk walk.
"New smell," Gruntle declared.
"Different from other dogs?" Al asked.
"Not sure. They run away."
"Maybe this is a good thing. Our donkey wasn't afraid of you, now this dog isn't either. Maybe you're getting less scary."
Gruntle considered this, then grunted. "Easier hunting if they don't run."
Al decided to change the subject so as not to encourage that line of thought.
"If nobody minds, after we get something to eat I'd like to visit the apothecary and see if she can tell us exactly what that jug of goblin-filth is, and then I'd like to visit the bookshop. I think we might find something useful there."
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The meat-on-a-stick vendor's nervousness near a gnoll-shaped customer seemed to have been washed away by the tide of coins he'd been getting for the party's repeated purchases. He'd even prepared some beef in a somewhat rarer state then usual on the correct assumption that it would be well-received.
The meat was already gone in the few minutes it took to walk to the apothecary shop. The apothecary herself was stocking fresh vials of alchemical products into the shelves behind the counter when Al and his companions entered. She turned to greet them with a hopeful smile.
"Well, the valiant adventurers return!" she said, looking carefully at Al's face. "Not without some hardships it seems. I can compound an ointment that works very well for bruises, by the way."
Al reached up to touch the side of his face, wincing at the discomfort. "It looks that bad, does it? Maybe later, though. For now we wanted to see if you could analyze something for us."
Wikwocket lifted the clay jug up onto the countertop.
"Whatever you do, don't open it inside though. Whatever's in there has a horrible sickening smell. It could be some sort of concentrated disease as far as we know," Al warned her.
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"Or, it could be a concoction of powdered skulls and souls of the evil dead trapped by vile magic during the dark of the new moon and boiled over a lamp fueled by the fat of a hanged murderer!" Wikwocket fantasized aloud.
The apothecary gave her a skeptical look and leaned down as if listening to the jug.
"I very much doubt that," she said, "Oil of Malice requires some potent magic to create and I don't think anyone capable of making it would store it in such a dangerously crude container. Besides, we'd be able to hear the screaming."
Al was amused to see Wikwocket rendered speechless for once, having not expected her wild speculation to be something real. He also mentally adjusted his opinion of the apothecary's education upwards. He'd never heard of Oil of Malice before but it seemed like something you'd have to be very learned to know about.
"No, definitely not something I'd expect a bunch of unsophisticated goblins to get their hands on," he agreed. "The sloppily-painted skull on the side certainly suggests something horribly poisonous though."
"Goblins? You didn't find this on your job here, did you?"
"I'm afraid so. Nasty green menaces were down in the ruins of the old elven baths getting drunk on ancient elven liquor. They had this jug with them, so I was wondering what horrible plans they might have intended with it."
"Some of the other customers have been complaining about goblins further north of us," said the apothecary with open disgust, "I don't like the thought of them getting nearer. You did get rid of them, I hope?"
Gruntle grinned toothily.
"We most certainly did, yes," Al said with some satisfaction.
"Good. Well, I can examine your jug of goblin filth after I close for the evening. The fee will be one gold coin plus the cost of reagents. I can't predict exactly what that will be until I start working and see what we've got, but I wouldn't expect to go over another five coins, probably no more than one. If it looks like I'll need something unusually expensive I'll suspend the analysis until I get your approval to continue. Is that acceptable?"
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Feeling the fee was worthwhile, Al agreed. Promising to return the next morning, they left for their next stop. The elderly bookseller looked shocked to see Gruntle duck through the door behind Al.
"I don't think I've got gloves big enough for you," the old man quavered.
"It's okay, he's with me. We were just wondering if you've got anything about the FitzWaynes," Al said. The bookseller produced a pair of gloves for Al and pointed to a shelf.
"Ah, old ranching family, runs the barony out on the frontier to the east. They aren't big on literature but there's a family history and a few books some of them have written."
"Ranching?" Wikwocket asked, "Like, cows?"
"That's right. They got their wealth from cattle, and then their elevation to the nobility when they took up raising warhorses. Now they have ranches with sheep, goats, and pigs as well. One of them has recently also developed a special breed of dog, he's got a book there as well."
Al put on the gloves and examined the indicated shelves. All Cattle, No Hat: The FitzWayne Story appeared to be the family biography he'd expected to find. There were some small books discussing the raising of cattle, the operation of a dairy, textile production from wool, and the diseases of sheep. There was additionally a cookbook with rustic recipes, and a book entitled "The Care, Feeding, and Training of Magehounds". The latter book caught Al's eye and he picked it up. It wasn't an especially large book, making the price of 75 gold coins quite shocking. He carefully flipped through just to see what was in it. The author was given as "Edward FitzWayne" and described an exclusive dog breed that seemed to only be available from Edward. In addition to the expected sections describing the physical characteristics of the breed and how to properly feed and work with them, the table of contents included a section titled "Intellectual Stimulation", and another labeled "Magic and your Magehound". From what Al could glean from his brief skim, magehounds were unusually intelligent for dogs, and they supposedly could smell active magic.
Unable to justify the cost of the book and certain he wouldn't be able to find a magehound any time soon, let alone afford to buy one, he put the book back and picked up All Cattle, No Hat. It was moderately thick, authored by an "Angus FitzWayne". The table of contents was arranged chronologically. The book seemed to have been written relatively recently, and was cheaper than Al expected at 15 gold coins. It still felt like a lot of money to Al, but under the circumstances still a worthwhile investment.
"This will do nicely, thank you," Al said, setting the book on the countertop.
"Ah, yes, Baron Angus FitzWayne's history. I judge that he hired at least three different scribes to author the various portions of the book, each of them rather amateurish. Much of it reads like rustic folklore but I'm sure you can learn much about the FitzWaynes from it nonetheless."
Al noticed Gruntle beginning to sniff around the books out of either curiosity or boredom, so he quickly returned the gloves, paid, thanked the bookseller, and ushered the party back out.
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With some time left to spare Wikwocket and Gruntle opted to spend some time not at all terrorizing the local nobility with their antics while Al and Bote returned to the room. Al wanted to use whatever time was available to see what relevant information he could find out about the FitzWayne who had extended the unexpected invitation, and since there were two more meetings to be attended the rest of the day, he wasn't sure how much time he'd have for reading later. He started in on chapter one, which was a tale of a Benton FitzWayne, described as the founder of the family who drove cattle across the wide grasslands in the east. There were numerous tall tales of improbable athletics and slaying giant beasts to protect the herd.
Wikwocket and Gruntle returned well-exercised, and Wikwocket showed off the pouch full of silver coins she'd collected.
"I told everyone Gruntle was a werewolf and challenged them to throw silver at him," she laughed. "Everyone who wasn't a jerk had a great time!"
Stephen arrived soon after to take them to meet the magistrate. They were led up to the top level of the building, where a pair of guards in polished armor with spears and short swords let them in. A wide table was set with plates and cups for five people, and was loaded with platters of luxurious food.
Al cringed as Stephen loudly announced, "The gnoll party is here, magistrate!"
"I'm coming, don't rush me!" called a forceful, feminine voice from behind a door in the opposite wall. Heavy footsteps stomped closer, and the door opened. A bulky, wrinkled, grey-haired woman stepped confidently into the room. She wore a bonnet, soft slippers, and a plain robe over what might have been a nightgown. She looked over the party with clear, focused eyes and smiled, giving Al the overall impression of an energetic grandmother determined to squeeze every bit of enjoyment possible out of her remaining years.
"Al Arcanisen, Wikwocket D. Flibbendorfer, Bote Wissengräber, and Gruntle," Stephen announced, "This is Winifred Ditcher, Magistrate of Hell's Bathtub."
"Well, you didn't tell me Al was such a handsome young man!" Winifred said, waggling her eyebrows.
"Hey, Al!" Wikwocket stage-whispered loudly, "I think she likes you! If you seduce her, she might pay us extra!"
Wikwocket and Winifred shared loud, uninhibited laughter as Al's face turned red.