The warm euphoria from the diluted Nightwraith wrapped around Fendrel's senses like a soft blanket. He leaned back in his worn wooden chair, watching the dust motes dance in the late afternoon light streaming through his grimy window.
Three sharp knocks broke through his pleasant haze.
Fendrel stumbled to his feet, the room swaying slightly as he made his way to the door. He pulled it open to find a man in dark leather armor standing in the shadows of the alleyway. Without a word, the stranger stepped past him into the laboratory.
The man's boots made no sound as he moved through the cramped space, examining the bottles and equipment with casual interest. His presence filled the small room like smoke.
"The guild requires something specific." The man's voice was surprisingly gentle. "A poison that mimics illness. Slow-acting, with death following days or weeks later. No visible traces."
Fendrel's drugged mind struggled to focus. "How's that different from the Silkslither Toxin? It already puts them in a coma before killing them."
The assassin turned, fixing Fendrel with dark eyes. "You misunderstand. We don't want unconsciousness. The target should remain functional, unaware they've been poisoned until it's too late. Natural symptoms that won't raise suspicion."
"I..." Fendrel's conscience pricked through the pleasant fog in his head, a brief moment of clarity piercing the haze. But the familiar writhing of the parasite inside him, a sensation he'd grown to both dread and depend on, left no room for refusal. "I'll do it."
The assassin stepped closer, his shadow falling across Fendrel's workbench like a shroud. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word precise and measured. "Remember, Master Solinar. We've been generous with our attitude because you're useful. But don't mistake that generosity for weakness." His eyes hardened to obsidian chips, reflecting the dim lamplight. "Failure isn't an option."
The assassin's footsteps faded down the alley, each step a diminishing reminder of the burden now weighing on Fendrel's shoulders. He slumped against the rough wooden wall, his head spinning from the diluted Nightwraith that coursed through his veins. A sharp creak from the back window snapped him alert, sending adrenaline cutting through the drug's stuppor. He spun around, almost knocking over a nearby shelf of carefully arranged reagents and distillation equipment.
A middle-aged man with a sharp widow's peak and calculating eyes pulled himself through the window frame. His expensive clothes caught on a loose nail, but he brushed it off with a practiced motion. A sly grin spread across his face as he straightened up.
Fendrel ran his hands through his hair. "When did this place become a gathering ground for you people?" He gestured vaguely at the window. "Sorry, but which one are you?"
The man's chuckle filled the small room. "A broker from the Guttermaw cabal." He adjusted his silk cuffs. "I'm here to confirm our great interest in your special new healing potions."
Fendrel's mouth fell open. "I have been dealing with the fucking Guttermaw?"
The broker's eyebrow arched, but his smile didn't waver. "No fucking, just Guttermaw." He tilted his head. "You didn't get our sigil yet?"
His manicured fingers produced a thin copper plate from an inner pocket. The metal caught the fading light as he held it up, revealing an etched broken jawbone design. He set it on Fendrel's workbench with a soft click.
"Here, your usefulness was just confirmed."
"Who knew you are dealing with The Ironmire as well, that is news." The broker's casual tone sent a chill down Fendrel's spine. He stumbled backward, knocking into one of his shelves. Several empty vials rattled precariously.
"What?" Fendrel stared at the man, his mind struggling to process the implications through the lingering effects of the Nightwraith.
"Oh, you didn't know?" The broker's smile widened. "Well, now you do, not much difference I reckon."
The man stepped closer to Fendrel's workbench, sitting on the chair. "But let's discuss business. The Guttermaw has a particular interest in your... specialized skills." He paused, examining a rack of bottles. "If it is true that you can produce potions that grant poison and toxin resistance skills, then we are greatly interested. The catch is, they must be safe to use. No unfortunate deaths during consumption."
Fendrel's eyes widened. "You mean-"
"Yes, Master Solinar. We're prepared to pay substantial amounts. We are talking in gold." The broker's fingers drummed against the wooden surface. "Consider it an investment in your unique talents."
The room spun around Fendrel as his mind struggled to process what just went down in his lab. Real gold. Not copper or silver, but actual gold.
"I'll need to run tests first," Fendrel said, trying to keep his voice steady. "To ensure everything works properly. Leave a deposit and-"
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The broker's grin stretched wider as he placed a heavy pouch next to the one already on the table. The distinct clink of metal rang through the cramped laboratory.
"You are learning fast, Master Solinar." Without another word, the man slipped back through the window, leaving Fendrel alone with the bag of money and his racing thoughts.
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Fendrel's eyes snapped open, his heart racing as the parasite's burning sensation spread through his veins. The familiar wake-up call left him drenched in sweat, body trembling as he pushed himself up from his cot.
[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 2 hours.
Dawn's pale light filtered through the grimy window. His gaze fell on the copper and iron plates on his desk, their surfaces reflecting the weak rays. The mere sight of them made his insides twist.
He dragged himself to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. Stumbling to his drawer he pulled out set of his daily vials, downing the contents one by one. The single set giving him the next twelve hours of survival costed an fortune at this point.
"Twenty silver each Xytherium Poison and thirty per Silkslither Toxin." He paused before downing the Nightwraith Distillate and Bitterroot Tonic. "I don't even want to know how valuable these are."
[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 12 hours
His eyes traced the iron plate's surface, following the serpent's coiled form around the chalice.
The copper plate beside it bore the Guttermaw's broken jaw - crude compared to the elegant lines of the Ironmire sigil. Street thugs and cutthroats versus professional killers. Both now far too interested in his services.
He slumped into his workbench chair, head in his hands.
The Ironmire Court. The name alone carried weight few dared speak of. Tales circulated in hushed whispers through taverns - wealthy merchants found dead in locked rooms, officials corrupt or hones alike vanishing without trace. Yet those same officials employed them as protection, paying fortunes for their services.
One wrong move, one missed delivery, and he'd have both organizations hunting him through the slums. The thought made his newly settled stomach churn again.
The events of last night felt like a fever dream, but the heavy pouches on his workbench proved otherwise. Working with one underground organization was dangerous enough, but two? He needed a backup plan.
He spread his ingredients across the table, emptying the mostly empty shelves as well, cataloging what he had left.
His fingers went over bundles of dried Dralk weed and Bluecap mushrooms. Basic stuff, enough to last weeks. The real problem lay with the specialized ingredients. He lifted a nearly empty vial of Nightshade essence to the light - not enough for even one batch. The Bitterroot supplies weren't any better.
"Shit." He rubbed his temples. The parasite's familiar itch crawled under his skin, a reminder of his constant need for poison. But now he had actual funds to work with.
His mind drifted to the Basic Healing Potion in his codex. The ingredients were cheap in comparison to everything else, easy to source in bulk. More importantly, legal. He could make a lot of them, flood the market with healing potions, establish himself as a legitimate alchemist. Someone had to start talking if it got into enough hands.
Fendrel pulled out fresh parchment and began calculations. With the new capital, he could produce a decent batch of healing potions for the slums. Meanwhile, keeping enough resources to stock on the deadly stuff.
He measured out Petaline herbs and Bluecap mushrooms, setting up multiple piles for batches ready to brew. The familiar motions of making healing potions put his nerves at ease. He needed a cover, needed to look like just another struggling alchemist trying to make honest coin.
Fendrel pulled his hood lower as he slipped through the market crowds. The morning bustle provided cover, but each guard's helmet gleam sent his heart racing. He kept to the edges, weaving between merchant stalls until he reached the herbalist quarter.
Old Man Kern's stall displayed the usual dried herbs. Fendrel picked through bundles of Petaline and Dralk weed, testing leaves between his fingers.
"The usual selection?" Kern's weathered face crinkled.
"Double it." Fendrel counted out copper pieces. "And whatever Bluecap you have in stock."
Three more stops yielded similar results - basic ingredients at market prices. His coin pouch grew lighter, but his satchel filled with legitimate supplies. The real challenge lay ahead.
Garon's shop sat wedged between a tanner and weaponsmith, perfect cover for less savory goods. The bell chimed as Fendrel entered.
"Back door." Garon barely glanced up from his ledger.
In the storage room, Garon produced a wrapped package. "Nightshade essence, fresh batch. And two vials of Venomlily."
Fendrel passed over silver coins, tucking the package deep in his cloak.
After his church stop for holly water and some more fresh herbs, he took to the side street leading towards Adventurer's Guild. The massive building towered ahead, its stone facade weathered but imposing. Inside, the notice board drew his eye - dozens of parchments detailing monster hunts and escort missions. He found the ingredient request section tucked in a corner.
A clerk approached, her guild tabard crisp. "Need assistance?"
"Submitting a collection request." Fendrel produced his list. "Blackwillow bark ash, Shadecap eyes..."
The clerk's quill scratched against parchment as she recorded his request details. Her eyes flicked to the address section Fendrel was filling out.
"Oh, you don't need to include your laboratory location." She tapped the parchment. "Most alchemists prefer having materials delivered here to the guild. You can leave the payment with us, and once an adventurer completes the request, it'll show up in your quest log. Much more convenient."
Fendrel's hand froze mid-stroke. The thought of random adventurers knowing where he worked and showing up at his door was bothering him. The fewer people who could connect his face to his location, the better.
"The guild handles the whole process?" He kept his voice steady.
"Of course. We inspect all ingredients before accepting delivery." She straightened a stack of forms. "Saves everyone time, really. Adventurers don't have to track down individual buyers, and crafters can pick up materials at their convenience."
He crossed out the half-written address. The guild's reputation for discretion was well-known - they wouldn't stay in business long if they leaked client information. This way, he could remain just another name in their ledgers.
"I'll bring the payment for this batch later." He counted out silver coins, keeping his movements measured despite the relief flooding through him.
[QUEST LOG]: Adventurer's Guild request submitted.
Type: Ingredient Collection.
Fendrel scanned the interface as she processed his payment.
[ACTIVE QUESTS]
Ingredient Collection 1 - In Progress (Lab delivery)
Ingredient Collection 2 - In Progress (Lab delivery)
Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery)