The full assessment hadn’t taken long at all, apparently Eloft had learned almost everything he’d needed to from the status bangle. Rhode did his best to learn more about his historical predecessors, but felt trapped by his self-imposed precautions about revealing too much about himself. The conversation proceeded clumsily, as the homunculus tiptoed around certain topics, and had come to the verge of nodding off. His main takeaways were that these figures had been powerful in a way that regular people rarely or never could, and that the actual dates of their arrivals were scattered over hundreds of years.

But privacy was a luxury which Rhode could only have so much of. Once the check-up was complete, Eloft knocked on the door and opened it. Immediately, Junior Scholar Tarrop swept in and nearly bowled him over. Four other people trailed in after him, filling the room until it was particularly claustrophobic. There was the servant, carrying a platter of sliced fruit and meats and a basket of fresh towels; he was a short looking older goblin who strenuously overflowed the constraints of his tailored suit. There was the young Sergeant weapons-master. The woman was tall and stocky, and she had so many knives and swords attached to herself that she was practically wearing more belts than uniform. Behind her was trailing one of the members of the ‘official’ healer team: a dedicant of Hornupant. He did NOT look happy to have been left out of the room; but he’d also been delegating so much of his duties to his assistants that Rhode couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it.

The last figure closed the door behind herself as she entered. Her gown was luxuriously, sinfully, crimson and purple, and trimmed in velvet black with so many brass charms and magic talismans she looked like a gothic yuletide tree. The blood ran out of Rhode’s face, and his heart raced as the great Flesh Alchemist of New West City met his gaze. She was wanted dead or alive in thirty two nations, and her bounty was measured in gold and silver by the pounds. As she turned serenely to look on her creation from the back of the crowd, her plasticine face effected a piercing, pitiless curiosity.

Yikes.

“Goodman Eloft! Obviously, it behooves me to say, on behalf of all of us: welcome to the team!” Tarrop announced somewhat theatrically. He actually started clapping, just a polite little round for the show of it.

The servant scowled and dropped the food on the floor and the laundry on Rhode’s desk. Then he thought about it, grumbled and switched their positions to their more expected arrangement.

The clatter had surprised everyone except for the soldier, who laughed with an impolite snort, and the conversation died until the old gob hobbled out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

Tarrop squatted down and then wiped off a stray slice of pale fruit, clearly displaying a strong belief in the five second rule, and resumed his thought while chewing on the snack with delight. “Well, anyway, we’re all dying to know what you think.”

Eloft presented himself respectably, practiced by having (no doubt) delivered both good news and grim over his years of service. “I believe I will be surprising no one in this room when I say the damage is severe.”

There were nods all around, so the priest of Dogoda pushed on.

“I have medicines which are tailored to Ser Irving’s condition, and no doubt, we have certain alchemical expertise available here that I can collaborate on more efficacious remedies.”

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“I do not collaborate,” warned the alchemist. Her voice was nasal, high pitched and musical. But also, surprisingly menacing.

“Then I can prepare the precursor ingredients, and instructions. I hope we will rely on your expertise to proceed from there,” Eloft offered.

The room turned towards the master homunculus crafter in case she might refuse. Instead she tipped her head slightly, jingling her headdress, and inspected her fingernails.

“But while the topic of medication is all well and good, the fact is that Ser Irving is generating mana at a rate I’ve never seen before. He’s pushing against the very limit of a new level, and I don’t think there’s a way we can hold it back.”

Scholar Tarrop shuffled his feet, and took out a handkerchief and wiped the top of his head. “I would hope it has been communicated that levels are Wavelton Broox’s responsibility. Is that a general observation, Goodman, or does this pertain to the well being of the big guy, here?”

Eloft stepped towards the bed and placed a hand on Rhode’s shoulder. The homunculus grumpily considered brushing it off, but let it go. Boundaries were weird here.

“I would like to propose to teach Rhode the technique art [Bellows].” He paused, expecting protests, but Tarrop only rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“That’s a technique for blacksmiths, isn’t it? I know it’s a highly valued skill art, but only for crafters,” the portly goblin considered aloud.

“It’s a strong introductory skill for aeromancers too,” Eloft pounced. “I never leveled it myself, but I’ve helped my patients take it more than once, and it’s been a blessing every time.”

“And what is the purpose of this level?” Interrupted the Alchemist.

“Well, it allows a person to compress the air powerfully within their own body without harm. It’s not common, but there are a hundred applications of the ability. In this case, since Rhode’s lungs are so badly scarred, the technique should allow him to aerate his blood more effectively. It may be too late to remove [Hibernate], but [Bellows] should compound with his [Vigor] quite admirably to reduce his persistent exhaustion.”

There was a moment of consideration through the room. The Alchemist was actually looking pleased with her rictus grin and too wide eyes.

Rhode shuddered.

But the Sergeant wasn’t satisfied. “Yet another wasted level, then? How long do we have to wait until we can see some combat potential out of this silver-slurping ogre?” She groused, crossing her arms.

“Well, like I said. There are a hundred applications,” Eloft gave a sad smile, “have you heard of the dragon-scourge line-breaker of Brassmarket? Wears full body armor, breathes fire everywhere they go. Routed Lord Curkkil of Feathersand at Iguana River, by themselves if the story is true.”

“In ‘82,” the Sergeant whispered, beginning to turn around to the idea.

“All he would need is some heat and toxin resistance, and a fire aspect, and… I mean, that would already be enough.”

The mood in the room changed instantly. Smiles broke out on every face. Tarrop clapped Eloft on the back so hard that the healer nearly fell forward, and then wrapped him in a full bodied hug. Brother Eloft pulled away, politely declining praise as Rhode’s captors laughed with delight and promise. He turned back to Rhode, who’d been silent through it all.

“But it’s your choice, Rhode. I think this is the right choice, but I’m not going to force you to do it.”

Rhode looked around the room. He looked at their fine clothes and jewelry. He looked at the plain gown that Eloft was wearing, and his stories about the families he had helped cure.

“Do you trust me?” Eloft asked. So Rhode reached out –

and took his hand.