The acrid stench of burnt herbs clung to the workshop's stale air as Fendrel hunched over his workbench. Sweat trickled down his temple, each drop threatening to contaminate the precise measurements laid out before him. Glass vials clinked against each other, their contents casting eerie shadows across the cramped space. A stack of botanical texts teetered on the edge of collapse beside his elbow.
The burning sensation in his chest intensified. Fendrel's hands trembled as he reached for the dralk weed, its purple leaves curling at the edges.
Another message flashed across his vision:
[PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level high. Time until hosts body is taken over: 10min. Required substance: Xytherium Poison.
"Damn thing could at least tell me how to brew this properly." Fendrel's voice echoed off the wooden walls. He squinted at the floating recipe before him:
[POISON RECIPE: Xytherium Poison]
* Dralk weed, 2 grams
* Nightshade essence, 3 drops
* Powdered bone ash, 5 grams
His eyes traced the spine of the nearest alchemy text. No time to review proper brewing methods. The parasite's presence writhed inside him like a nest of angry insects.
"Think, think." Fendrel grabbed his brass scales, measuring out the dralk weed with shaking hands. "Healing potions need gentle heat to preserve the properties..."
He lit the burner beneath his smallest cauldron, adjusting the flame until it barely licked the copper bottom. The nightshade essence sat in a crystal vial, its dark liquid seeming to absorb what little light reached it.
A spasm racked his body. Fendrel caught himself against the workbench, knocking over an empty flask. It shattered on the floor.
"Fuck, that was expensive one." His jaw clenched as he uncorked the nightshade. Three precise drops fell into the warming cauldron, the liquid hissing as it hit the surface.
The bone ash came last, its fine white powder coating his fingertips as he measured it out. Five grams exactly - he hoped. The mixture in the cauldron turned an unsettling shade of green.
Fresh pain bloomed in his chest. Fendrel doubled over, knocking his knee against the workbench leg. The floating recipe blurred in and out of focus as the parasite's influence grew stronger.
"Please work." He stirred the mixture with a glass rod, watching the components swirl together. The color shifted to a deep purple, then back to green. "Was that supposed to happen?" Every instinct from his training screamed that this was wrong. "Why would it shift through different colors?"
Fendrel watched the mixture bubble, his heart pounding. The liquid darkened from forest green to something deeper, like pond scum in the dead of night. Steam curled up from the surface in lazy spirals, carrying an odor that made his eyes water.
A fresh warning blinked across his vision:
[PARASITE STATUS]: Xytril Nematode is taking over the host. 5 minutes to full takeover.
His hands shook as he adjusted the flame beneath the cauldron. Too much heat would ruin everything, too little would make the process take longer than he had. The dralk weed floated to the surface, its edges blackening.
"Come on, come on." Fendrel stirred faster, then caught himself. Racing through the process would only waste the ingredients. He'd learned that lesson dozens of times at the academy, before they'd expelled him for his 'creative' approach to traditional formulas.
The mixture bubbled more vigorously. Fendrel reduced the heat, remembering how unstable nightshade essence became when overheated. The last thing he needed was poison smoke in his workshop.
His mind drifted to last night, when this nightmare began. He'd been scavenging ingredients in the market district after dark, picking through discarded produce and herbs. Nothing unusual about that night - no strange encounters, no suspicious foods or drinks. The parasite must have found him then, but how? When?
[PARASITE STATUS]: 4 minutes until full takeover. Host deterioration accelerating.
Fendrel grabbed the bone ash with trembling fingers. The powder drifted down into the cauldron like snow, disappearing into the dark liquid. He stirred carefully, counting each rotation. Healing potions always changed hues at least once before they were complete - surely poisons followed similar principles? They apparently did change color entirely during the process.
The mixture swirled, its surface reflecting the lamplight. Green to black to purple, then back to a deeper green. Fendrel held his breath, watching for any sign that the transformation was complete.
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Fendrel's hand trembled as he lifted a vial to eye level. The thick green liquid clung to the glass ladle, leaving oily streaks in its wake. He measured out a standard potion portion - enough to make a healing potion, or kill a man, if this concoction was indeed a poison.
[CRAFTING SUCCESS]: Xytherium Poison brewed successfully.
"Bottom's up." The words came out as a whisper. He tipped the vial back and poured the contents down his throat.
Fire spread through his chest. The poison burned worse than raw spirits, coating his tongue with an acrid taste that made him gag. His stomach heaved, threatening to expel the liquid.
A notification flashed across his vision:
[EFFECT]: You have been poisoned.
His hands began to change color, the skin taking on a sickly green tint that spread up his forearms. Fendrel's heart hammered against his ribs. This was it, he fucked up. The room spun as he stumbled backward, knocking over line of empty flasks.
The green tinge deepened.
[STATUS]: You neutralized the poisoned effect
[NEW PASSIVE SKILL]: Poison resistance 1
Fendrel blinked at the notification. He hadn't seen a new skill appear in three years, not since... well, not since everything went to shit at the academy.
[PARASITE STATUS]: Agitation level decreased. Next dose required in 12 hours
The pressure in his chest eased. The constant writhing sensation that had plagued him for the last five hours subsided to a dull ache. Fendrel slumped against the workbench, drawing in deep breaths of the herb-scented air.
His relief lasted only moments before reality set in. Twelve hours. He had twelve hours before he'd need another dose. Another batch of expensive ingredients, and his workshop lab was nearly empty after his string of failed attempts.
A new notification caught his attention as he wiped sweat from his brow:
[CRAFTING STATUS]: Xytherium Poison, residual amount: 80%.
His gaze drifted to the cauldron. The remaining poison glowed faintly in the dim light, enough for four more doses. The ingredients had cost him nearly everything he had left, but maybe...
Fendrel ran his fingers through his hair, considering his options. If he could find the right buyer, it might pay enough to restock his supplies, maybe even upgrade some of his equipment.
He grabbed the last set of vials for healing potions from the shelf, filling them up.
Fendrel pulled his hood lower and slipped through the narrow alleys of the market district. The setting sun cast long shadows between the buildings. His footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as he ducked beneath hanging laundry and around piles of discarded crates.
The weight of the vials pressed against his chest, hidden beneath layers of cloth. Each step brought fresh waves of anxiety. His stomach churned.
The city guard had doubled their patrols lately, their armored forms more present in the slums. As an alchemist, even a failed one, he knew the consequences all too well.
Death was the only sentence for brewing poisons in the city.
He reached the back of Garon's shop, a cramped space stuffed with shelves of dubious merchandise. The familiar scent of musty books and dried herbs filled the air. Garon sat at his desk, examining a crystal through a jeweler's lens.
He looked up, his weathered face creasing into familiar lines. "You're early this week." He set down the crystal. "And you look like shit."
"I have something new." Fendrel's voice cracked. "Not the usual stuff."
"Listen, Fendrel." Garon leaned back in his chair. "I understand times are hard, but I can't keep buying every failed experiment you bring in. Those healing potions barely work, and-"
"No." Fendrel glanced at the door. "It's... poison."
The word hung in the air. Garon's face transformed, color draining from his cheeks. He stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor.
"Have you lost your mind?" Garon's whisper cut like a knife. "Bringing that here? To my shop? Do you want us both sucking off the lord of death?"
"It's stable." Fendrel pulled out one of the vials. The green liquid caught the lamplight. "Clear. I expect it to be quiet deadly and I need to move it fast."
Garon's eyes fixed on the vial, his merchant's instincts warring with caution. "Put that away before someone sees it." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "How do you even know it works? And how did you manage to even come up with the recipe for something like this?"
"Tested it myself."
"You..." Garon shook his head. "I don't want to know." He paced behind his desk. "I can't move this. Too risky. But..." He stopped, considering. "I might know someone who'd be interested. No promises, but they handle... specialty items."
"When?"
"Midnight. Behind the old tannery." Garon's expression hardened. "But, If this goes wrong, we never had this conversation."
The old tannery's stench lingered even years after its abandonment. Fendrel pressed himself against the cold stone wall, three vials of poison clutched to his chest. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, casting strange shadows across the empty courtyard.
A figure emerged from the darkness, wrapped in a hooded cloak that concealed their features. Their boots scraped against the cobblestones as they approached.
"You Garon's friend?" The voice scraped like rusted metal.
Fendrel's throat went dry. "Yes."
"What you got that's worth dragging me out here?"
Fendrel withdrew one of the vials, the green liquid catching what little light penetrated the alley. "Poison. Stable. Deadly."
The figure stepped closer, head tilting. "Show me."
With trembling hands, Fendrel held out the vial. The stranger's gloved fingers brushed his as they took it, examining the contents with some kind of skill Fendrel imagined.
"Quality work." They pocketed the vial. "How many you got?"
"Three vials."
"I'll take them all. Twenty silver pieces each."
Fendrel's breath caught. Silver? He'd expected copper, if anything. Twenty silver pieces per vial was more than he'd seen in months.
"Deal." The word escaped before he could think better of it.
The stranger produced a pouch that clinked as they handed it over. Fendrel passed the remaining vials, trying to keep his hands steady.
"Pleasure doing business." The figure melted back into the shadows, leaving Fendrel alone with his newfound wealth.
He'd barely secured the pouch when familiar text flashed across his vision:
[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 6 hours. Agitation level will gradually increase.
The weight of the coins felt hollow in the moment. Sixty silver pieces wouldn't last forever, and he'd need more ingredients. Much more. The poison wasn't just a product anymore—it was his lifeline.
Fendrel clutched the money tighter as he turned toward his laboratory. The night air felt colder now, each step carrying him deeper into his new reality.