Oakley was on his way to the building that Aren had requested they meet at, when he happened to walk through what must have been the town square.

The area that housed the Chapel of Families was elsewhere in the town. This clearing looked to be much better equipped at serving as the town square, with a collection of businesses dotted around the main open area. He could see a general store, as well as one that he had no idea what it was about: ‘Coldclaw Outpost’ was all that was indicated on its wooden sign.

Oakley was going to duck back down the street he had been directed to, when a fleeting thought passed his mind. He could see one building, painted a pale green color for its front-facing shop, was labelled ‘The Weeping Miracle’. It appeared to be the alchemist that the man had apparently gone to, to fetch a potion.

Oakley decided to check this store out, as he still had a half-finished flask of some sort of potion wedged into one of his pockets. If he was scheduled to get some side effects after drinking some of it, he would like to know in advance.

Oakley walked into the store and a little bell rang when the door opened, to alert the shopkeeper. She had been in a backroom, but stuck her head out as Oakley entered.

“Hello! Welcome,” she said with a grin. She wore large, round glasses that might as well have been goggles. She had dirty, blonde hair which had been roughly cut short, but was still incredibly frizzy. Her clothes were covered in small holes, one of which was still sizzling. She noticed Oakley watching it sizzle and waved a hand at him. “Oh, don’t worry about that. It happens from time to time. Risk of doing potionwork, I’m afraid. How can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m new in town and I was just wondering if you were the one I go to for help with something like this,” Oakley said, pulling out the half-drunk bottle and placing it on the counter between the two of them.

The shop was filled with all kinds of things that kept threatening to take Oakley’s attention away from the matter at hand. It looked like there was an organized chaos to the store.

There was a small corner, near the counter, that had a couple shelves of books. They were all large hardback books with titles that Oakley couldn’t understand.

One side of the store was filled entirely with small glass jars, vials and little pouches. Each container looked to be filled with ingredients. Some were kept in oil- in the jars- such as what he hoped were pickled eggs. Others, with more vibrantly colored liquids were kept in the stoppered vials. Finally, all manner of plant cuttings, many that were dried, were kept within the pouches. Oakley only knew this as each pouch had a little label to easily portray what was stored within.

The opposite wall had numerous glass bottles with what he could only assume were the potions. There were so many that Oakley couldn’t even fathom what they could all be used for.

Oakley turned back to the shopkeeper, who was waiting patiently and smiling politely as he took in all the different products.

“I’m sorry that I really don’t know anything about potions,” Oakley said, “but I was in a situation where I had to drink this in order to avoid dehydration for the past few days. Is there any chance you could tell me what it does and if I’m going to grow another arm, or die, soon?”

The shopkeeper laughed kindly at Oakley’s question and picked up the bottle to closer inspect the liquid within.

“You’re in luck,” she said with that same, constant smile, “this potion wouldn’t have had any adverse effects on you anyway, had it not been inert already.”

“Inert?”

“I’m not sure where you picked it up,” the shopkeeper explained, “but this potion is so old that the effects it was intended to bestow wouldn’t have worked. It’s beyond its usable shelf life.”

“Could I ask what it was meant to do?” Oakley asked.

“You just did,” the shopkeeper said, with a wink, “it’s a potion designed to help with swimming. To help the drinker breathe underwater, to more readily navigate strong currents; those kinds of things. Usually, a potion’s effects are instantaneous, though some last longer than others. You should be fine- though I’d recommend you avoid drinking any more. A potion that has become inert is… old.”

Oakley gave a polite chuckle at the shopkeeper’s exaggerated look of disgust at the idea of drinking something like that.

“Thank you for the help,” Oakley said, going to pick up the bottle to leave, but the shopkeeper stopped him.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

“Would you mind if I kept a hold of this?” She asked, pointing at the bottle.

“Sure, if you’d like?” Oakley shrugged. “It’s one thing less to carry for me, so I don’t mind.”

“Great. Thank you,” she said as Oakley gave a little wave goodbye and continued on his way to complete his original task for that day. He didn’t notice the curious look the shopkeeper gave the flask and then him, as he left.

Oakley walked off, out of the square, hurrying up his pace so that he didn’t keep Aren waiting too long. They did agree on an approximate time, after all. He took a left, a right and then another left to find himself in a street that was less glamourous than the strict man’s street, but still housed a good few homes.

Oakley walked down to the one that he’d been instructed to go to, with a knocker in the shape of a tree, and checked his pocket- just to make sure that the pouch was still there. Satisfied with his mission, Oakley grasped the knocker and knocked clearly, four times.

There was about a full minute of waiting before the door opened and revealed Aren Bryne. He was not wearing a hooded cloak to try and mask his identity this time around, instead opting for beige clothes and trousers held up with red suspenders.

“Do you have it?” The older man asked, to which Oakley nodded and patted the pocket that held the pouch. “You should have been here earlier. You’re late.”

“I’m sorry,” Oakley shrugged. “I went to go do an errand while I was out.”

“Fine,” Aren sighed, opening the door a little wider to allow Oakley to enter the home.

It was smaller than the other home he had been in, though it was better decorated by far. Aren hadn’t spent as much money on his interior, but Oakley could see more care had been put into choosing each item. It felt like a home, while the other one felt more like a large coffin.

Oakley thought he heard a bump upstairs, but before he could think on it further, Aren began quizzing him more about the mission.

“Did it go smoothly? To plan? Were you seen? Why did you decide to go walking about the town square while you were holding stolen goods?” He asked, rapidly, leaving Oakley no time to answer any of the questions before the next one came to replace them.

“It was fine,” Oakley said, holding his hands up to try and get Aren to calm down a little. “Nobody suspects a thing. Now, the reason for all of this?”

Oakley eyed Aren and raised an eyebrow, expecting Aren to deliver on his end of the deal, too.

“I’d like to see the pouch first,” Aren said, eyeing Oakley in the exact same manner.

Oakley shrugged and placed it on the small table between the two of them. Aren looked at it and could see, even from his distance away, that the pouch was the right one.

“The information,” Oakley said, his tone beginning to slip into something a little lower, a little more intimidating.

“Of course,” Aren smiled. “Why else would you have risked so much for this little old thing?”

“Spill the beans, now, please,” Oakley said, beginning to get the sense that Aren was either stalling for time, or for things to say.

“You’re searching for Hariel Paerilith, correct?” Aren asked, though he already knew the answer. Oakley nodded, done talking. He was just waiting to see if he liked Aren’s answer at this point. “He travelled up north, into the Graveyard Grove, a good couple weeks ago. He returned from his trip only a couple days before yourself. He didn’t wait, choosing to push on down south. I’m unsure what his reasons for travelling were.”

“Why do you know this man’s name and schedule?” Oakley asked, confused.

“It’s hard to forget such a face, or such a man,” Aren shrugged. “He frequented the inn when he was first here, making speeches about the false power of kings- or something like that. He made an impact on the people here, that’s all.”

“So, he went south?” Oakley asked, to which Aren nodded a confirmation. “He has a day or two’s head start on me.”

Oakley started to walk towards the front door, wanting to get going immediately, but Aren stepped in front of him nervously.

“What is it?” Oakley asked, trying to still sidestep the older, shorter man.

“I have a second request of you,” the man said, “related to the first, in fact.”

“I’m not stealing anything else for you. I felt bad enough robbing that thing, whatever it is.”

“It isn’t for me, neither is the pouch,” Aren said quietly, almost hushing to a whisper.

“Then who is it for?” Oakley asked, subconsciously quieting his own voice.

As they both stood in silence for a moment, Oakley heard it, another bump from upstairs.

“What is up there?” Oakley asked, still quiet.

“Who, not what,” Aren said, nodding with his head to indicate for Oakley to follow.

Aren walked up the stairs, ahead of Oakley. Oakley had all the opportunity to just walk out of that front door; nobody was stopping him, but curiosity again had taken hold.

Aren walked up the tight staircase. It curved squarely, twice, before they reached the next floor up. There were two closed doors on the upper floor. Aren knocked quietly on one of them.

“We’ve got a guest,” Aren said, loudly enough for whoever was in the room to hear. “Can we come in?”

“Sure.” A deep voice, like a heavy bass, rumbled from within the room.

Aren nodded and started turning the handle to the room as Oakley waited for the reveal. Who was important enough to need this much nervousness before their introduction?

Oakley followed Aren into the room and saw immediately why Aren had kept the other housemate a secret until now.

Sitting down, at a desk in the bedroom, was someone who greatly resembled what Oakley could only describe as a demon. He had blood-red skin and jet-black hair tied back in a ponytail. He didn’t wear any shoes, instead showing hefty red paws with sharp claws at the ends.

The being wore loose-fitting trousers and a smart, yet also loose-fitting shirt. He looked like he was preparing for a job interview, if anything. Oakley wasn’t sure whether he was meant to be scared of the fact this being was also rippling with muscles and at least eight feet in height, or impressed at the amount of books it was reading through.

“This is Rigdraz,” Aren said, introducing the two. “Rigdraz Irnollath, the owner of the pouch you stole.”

“Hello, Oakley,” Rigdraz said with a sharp-toothed smile, his yellow eyes flashing in the window’s light, as he turned to look at Oakley. “I have a favor to ask of you.”