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Chapter XXVIII : Herbologist
Latemorn of Denuo, Third Day of Autumnmoon
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Géorg Töller braced himself for another sweltering day on the job. An unseasonal heat wave baked the continent’s central region. The temperatures were relentless and quite unwelcome in his line of work. He was an army veteran who made his living selling herbs at a medicinal shop in the Herdrick Bazaar, the great marketplace in the desert city of Saladin. His customers were most often scholars or alchemists who used his herbs as raw materials for serums, tonics, or spell components.
In the first few days of the week, when business was slow, he restocked supplies. Unfortunately, the late summer heat rendered his usual foraging locations barren, forcing him farther south, toward the lowlands at the base of the Ur mountain range. He departed early in the morn, hoping to beat the sun. Once it reached its zenith, the heat would become unbearable.
Géorg was in his mid-thirties, slender and sinewy, but strong to the core. His once-full head of blond hair had thinned over the years, so he cut it short, almost to the scalp. A scraggly beard covered his face, which he mostly let grow out of laziness. He only picked up a razer once in a while, when the hairs grew sufficiently unkempt. His eyes were the same deep blue as most northerners on the continent.
He was originally from Kitezh, where he fought as a soldier in King Henrich’s army. During The War, a debilitating injury caused the loss of his right arm. It would have been treatable, had he not been captured and placed in an Angkorian labor camp for six months. Squalid conditions and a lack of sorcery resulted in an infection. One day, a medic arrived and treated it using amputation. The loss of his sword arm crushed Géorg’s spirit. Even after his countrymen liberated the camp, he sank into a deep depression. For months, he hardly ate or slept.
Over time, his lifestyle worsened. Few were able or willing to hire a one-armed ex-soldier, and when he failed to pay his taxes, his own kingdom repossessed his family home. Having no surviving relatives, he explored local shelters for charity. However, they turned him down in favor of mounting numbers of widows and orphans. When there was no other recourse, he turned to begging. He owned nothing but the tattered clothes on his back, which barely protected against the northern Kitezhian chill. Food and shelter grew scarce due to Angkor’s frequent attacks, and Géorg’s muscular athletic body withered.
One day, he found himself walking the streets of a city. He couldn’t even recall its name. All he had was an empty tin cup, which he held out as he mumbled for mercy from passersby. Sadly, the whole nation faced tough times. War ravaged the countryside, and Angkor gained ground with each passing week. The Kitezhian army shifted their dwindling resources toward maintaining the health of their soldiers, and out-of-work veterans received none of it. The army couldn’t afford to have him under their protection. He became a ghost, even to his own homeland.
When all hope seemed lost, a young healer named Ilse Von Soutine took pity on him. She saw the strength of a noble warrior behind his hapless visage, so she led him to a local shelter, where she nursed him back to health. Although Ilse had limited skills in sorcery, her true talent lay in herbal medicine. While caring for Géorg, she taught him the many subtleties of herb lore. Having little else to do with his time, he took to her teachings. When his health improved, she helped him find work as a nurse’s assistant.
After a few months, Ilse left to aid the war effort, and Géorg followed. They were stationed in the Saladina Desert, the main front during The War’s middle years. There, they treated the wounded and created a center for rehabilitation. Even with one arm, Géorg was a competent worker. Ilse had given him purpose. His depression lifted, and his outlook improved.
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One morn, while Géorg restocked on herbs, an Angkorian raid struck the camp. He returned to find it burnt to the ground. Both the injured and staff were dead. The well of hope that had sprung in his heart now ran as dry as the desert sands. He fell to his knees, feeling like the other half of his body had now been severed.
As he sorted through the ashes, lifeless and dejected, he found a small metal case, which he remembered Ilse using to store her most cherished possessions. Hands trembling, he opened it. Inside was a journal, mostly burnt and barely legible, except for a few entries. He grasped the pages tenderly, holding them to the light to make out faint text atop umber-colored paper.
It turned out Ilse had feelings for him, and she desired a life together after The War. She expressed a wish that they would open an herbology business and combine their talents to help others. Géorg wept, but he couldn’t allow himself to succumb to depression. He had to honor Ilse’s memory. Casting aside hopelessness and sorrow, he pledged to bring her dream to fruition.
In the ongoing months, he spent countless hours each day sifting through the aftermath of battles, searching for anything he could salvage for a few silvers. He unstrapped armor from the dead, hawked magical artifacts, and plundered weapons left behind in haste. He also found broken machinery, which he repaired to the best of his ability. Battles occurred frequently in the desert. As long as he had his viscar, a waterskin, and clothing to protect against the sun, he could find items of value—and beat other would-be scavengers to the prize.
Soon, he had enough coin to purchase a shop in Saladin. Using the skills that Ilse taught him, he ventured into the wilderness in search of rare herbs. The work proved relatively safe, with fewer gangs or bandits competing for resources. The mountainous lowlands around the desert held troves of covetous plants, especially inside caverns and ravines. All it took was someone brave enough to venture to these remote locations and know what to look for.
His wares were always in high demand, and his business grew. Eventually, he traded his viscar for a sandskipper—a magically charged platform that floated above ground, including over shallow water. It carried heavier loads than animal mounts and ran at greater speeds. With his new vehicle, Géorg scurried across the desert in the early morn, with enough time to finish herb hunting by highsun.
That particular morn, his final ingredient was a plant named thistlewort. Reports of heightened spawn activity made him cautious of traveling so far south, but the unseasonal temperatures had scorched all other locations. He hoped that ravines at the base of the Zeugma Pass might yield better. Unfortunately, hours of sleuthing left him empty-handed.
He was about to turn back, when he caught sight of something moving subtly in the distance, behind a field of sharply barbed shrubs. It appeared to be white fabric, fluttering in the breeze. He waded through for a closer look, carefully avoiding the thorns. As he drew close, he saw the fabric was clothing … a white dress … draped around a woman’s lifeless body, suspended in prickly branches.
“Great Mother,” he breathed, wondering if the dark-skinned lady might have been a traveler from Malden who had fallen off the pass high above. Maldenese were often quite wealthy, and while her dress was in tatters, she could easily have been a noblewoman. The body was badly scraped and wounded, with bruises along her exposed arms and legs. He detected a faint heartbeat along her neck.
“You are one lucky lady.”
He didn’t expect her to respond, but traveling alone often left him verbalizing his thoughts. The woman likely suffered from dehydration and hypotension, but those were treatable. He had no way of knowing how long she had hung suspended, but at least there was hope of recovery.
As he examined her body, his heart skipped a beat. On the side of a bruised and swollen neck, he found the poisoned barbs of an endrake. He was loath to be within a dozen leagues of such behemoths. He scanned the nearby cliffs, which towered high above. He saw no immediate threat, but it could still be close. He would need to end his scavenger hunt early.
He sighed. “Damned spawn. Yet another place to avoid.”
He gently lifted her body onto his good shoulder and carried her back to the sandskipper. He applied some salve to reduce the swelling and antidote to reverse the endrake’s paralysis. He then grabbed some pliers from his toolbox to remove the barbs, careful not to cause more bleeding. He wished he could do more, but he lacked the right medical supplies, and herbology only went so far. At some point, Jane Doe required a dedicated sorcerer.
With that in mind, he set a course back to Saladin. The thistlewort would need to wait for another day.