Fendrel rolled up the completed forms and handed them to the receptionist.
[ACTIVE QUSTS]
Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery)
Research Plants Collection 1 - Submitted (Guild delivery)
He turned to leave, his thoughts already drifting to his next stops, when he collided with a solid mass behind him.
"Sorry." The word slipped out automatically.
Rough fingers seized his collar, preventing his backward stumble. Another hand darted toward his chest pocket. Fendrel's heart jumped. Are they fucking serious, robbing me in open like this?
Purple tinted his fingernails as he raised his voice. "What the fuck are you-"
"Sorry my fault." A scarred face split into a grin, the hand patting his shoulder. "Didn't mean to startle you."
"Do I know-"
The man wrapped an arm around Fendrel's shoulders, cutting him off. "Let's not stand in the way here." He steered them away from the line of waiting adventurers.
The guild hall's typical cacophony of clanking weapons and haggling voices covered their movement. The man's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Consider the offer carefully, it might just be what you need." He released Fendrel and melted into the crowd, leaving him standing alone near a pillar.
Fendrel's hands flew to his pockets, checking for missing items. Nothing gone - but his fingers found an unfamiliar piece of paper in his chest pocket. His pulse quickened. The guild hall suddenly felt too crowded, too many eyes that might be watching. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to examine the paper right there. Even with his limited street sense, he knew better than to read mysterious messages in public.
Fendrel circled around the guild hall toward the Maiden's Kiss, his fingers pressing the mysterious paper deeper into his pocket. The streets felt different now - each passerby a potential observer, every window possibly concealing watching eyes. His neck prickled with imagined surveillance.
The tavern's interior wrapped him in familiar dimness, empty save for the keeper wiping glasses behind the counter and a single patron who stuck out like a sore thumb at one of the tables. Something about the man's awkward posture and obvious discomfort struck a chord. Fendrel recognized that same out-of-place energy he carried within himself.
He settled at his usual corner table, the worn wood smooth beneath his fingers. Time crawled by as he waited, uncertain of the proper protocol. His mind wandered through possibilities until the scrape of a chair brought him back to present. A figure materialized across from him.
"This has to stop, Solinar. Middle of the day visits won't work, especially after your recent... activities." The man placed a tankard in front of Fendrel.
The rich aroma hit his nose, making him realize how long it had been since his last proper drink.
"Strange I'm not drinking here regularly, considering everything." The words slipped out before Fendrel could stop them.
"Life is full of mysteries like that. What do you want this time - finished preparing those drugs, or more product to move?"
He took a sip to cover his discomfort. "Recent days have been... challenging."
A grin spread across the man's face. "That's putting it mildly."
Fendrel's gaze caught on The Silent Scale embroidered on the man's sleeve. "I need ingredients. Do you handle that sort of thing?"
"Ready to stop pretending you're not one of us?"
Fendrel's lips tightened. "Should I write this down, or...?"
The man gestured at the empty tavern - the awkward patron had vanished at some point. "Just tell me. Payment first."
"Essence of bonebloom flowers and shredded deathvine. Blackwillow bark." The man's expression hardened as Fendrel spoke. "Venomlily seeds and spiderling venom."
Fendrel took another drink, studying the man over his tankard's rim. "Bulk bluecap mushroom too, fresh or dried. And eye of shadecap."
"You aren't simple man, are you Master Solinar."
Fendrel noticed the keeper's stare, the courier's face now stripped of its earlier humor. "Can you source these?"
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"Three gold."
Fendrel slid the coins across. The man pocketed them and left a silver tag bearing the scale symbol.
"The Ashen Anvil for future meetings."
"Never heard of such tavern."
"Because it isn't tavern, its blacksmith shop in the artisan district. Bring the tag."
Fendrel waited until the man left before pulling out the folded paper from his pocket. The parchment felt cheap beneath his fingers, brittle and crumbled. Five neat lines of jagged script stretched across the page:
To the accomplished master alchemist,
Your skills have not gone unnoticed. While others seek to bind you, we offer opportunity without chains. The city suffers, and your talents could ease that burden. No contracts, no obligations - simply fair payment for honest work.
Your independence remains yours.
If this interests you, place an empty vial by your front door at midnight.
- A Friend of the Afflicted
He crumbled the note and pushed it back into his pocket. The words churned in his mind as he drained the last of his drink. The offer sparked something - a flicker of his old self, before everything went wrong. But that spark died quick against cold reality.
He pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the familiar writhing sensation. No, he couldn't afford distractions. Between brewing for the different organizations and managing his condition, his schedule was tight as it was already.
The next days blurred together in his workshop. Measure, mix, distill. The routine brought a hollow comfort. Morning light through dusty windows as he prepared Intermediate healing potions. Afternoon shadows lengthening while he distilled Nightshade reinforcer. Evening candlelight reflecting off bottles of poisons and toxins.
His hands moved through the motions automatically now. Add the dralk weed, watch green shift to purple then back. Powder the bone ash fine as dust. Three drops of nightshade, no more, no less. The familiarity almost let him forget the constant presence inside him. Almost.
He found himself glancing at empty vials more often than he should. The note stayed in his pocket, edges softening from repeated handling. But each time temptation rose, he pushed it down. He had enough problems without adding mysterious benefactors to the mix.
The rhythm of work filled his days. Brew, bottle, deliver. Repeat. If this was normalcy, he'd take it. Better than the chaos of recent weeks. The note stayed in his pocket, untouched, unanswered.
----------------------------------------
Fendrel sat hunched over his workbench, surrounded by the soft glow of various poisons. The message mostly forgotten in the hum of passing days. Moonlight filtered through the grimy windows of his new workshop, casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Fendrel's eyes traced his codex. The pages scrolled through the ingredient lists. Five days had passed since his last level increase, but the achievement brought little joy. His stomach churned at the implications of his rapid advancement.
[STATUS]
NAME: Fendrel Solinar
CLASS: Mirebane LEVEL: 12
RACE: Human Bogwraith
SYMBIOSIS: Xytril Nematode LEVEL: 7
The rate of leveling should have slowed by now. Instead, each new recipe, each successful brew pushed him closer to the next threshold. His gaze lingered on the parasite's level - seven. Two more until nine. The question gnawed at him like acid eating through metal: what happened then? Would the creature evolve? Transform? Get advancement?
He flipped through the pages, scanning his expanded codex with growing unease.
[CODEX]
* Intermediate Healing Potion
* Advanced Healing Potion
* Venomshroud Poison
* Witherfang Resin
* Ashrot Infusion
* Darksap Draught
* Basic Mana recovery Potion
* Blackmire Venom
* Nightshade Reinforcer
* Gravebloom Tincture
The Gravebloom Tincture caught his attention. The medium vial sat innocently on the side of his workbench, its contents reduced down to a single vial without any residue. His skin crawled at the sight of it. Whatever its intended purpose, drinking it wasn't it. He put the vial into one of the shelfs, letting it rest among the other completed brews.
Rows of carefully labeled vials lined the shelves - his handiwork for the Ironmire and cabals delivery. The Blackthorns picked their delivery last evening, whole crate of healing potions and half of that in Reinforcers.
A sharp knock echoed through the workshop. Fendrel's head turned to the doors, his nails changing color instinctively before sign escaped his lips. The hour was late - too late for normal business. But he'd learned that normal meant nothing to the Guttermaw or the Ironmire, they tended to show up at the most random times.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Fendrel moved to the door, his footsteps silent on the worn stone floor.
He opened the door to find a woman standing in the shadows. Her dark robes seemed to drink in what little light reached the doorway. Something about her presence made his skin crawl - and after weeks of dealing with the city's underbelly, many things stopped bothering him.
"Which one are you?" The words came out tired, almost bored. He'd seen too many faces lately, delivered too many packages, made too many deals. But this woman... something about her felt different. Wrong.
"I am Nyssara." Her voice carried an accent he couldn't place. "May I enter?"
Fendrel stepped aside, letting her in. The smell hit him first - subtle notes of decay beneath expensive perfume. Her movements were precise, each step placed with careful intent as she glided into his workshop.
The candlelight caught her features. Dark hair framed a gaunt face, pale as moonlight. Her eyes were too large for her sunken cheeks, giving her an unsettling, owl-like appearance. She examined his workspace with those unblinking eyes, taking in the rows of bottles and equipment.
"Your expertise is of interested to us, Master Solinar." Her voice flowed like cold honey. "I've heard whispers of your... unique talents."
Fendrel crossed his arms. "Get to the point."
"Very well." She traced a finger along his workbench. "What do you know about the essence of death?"
"Excuse me?"
"The moment between life and death - when the soul begins to separate from flesh. There's power there, raw and untapped." Her eyes gleamed. "Through the right combination of toxins and rituals, we could capture that transition. Think of it - allowing the living to commune with those they've lost."
Fendrel barked out a laugh. "That's impossible. You're talking about necromancy wrapped in fancy words."
"Perhaps." She didn't seem offended. "For now, it's merely a theory, a dream. That's precisely why we need someone of your expertise."
The parasite squirmed inside him, and he pressed his hand against his chest. "We?"
"I represent a research collective." She pulled out a leather-bound journal. "Our true focus is studying how rare toxins interact with magical energies in living hosts. The applications could revolutionize treatment of magical ailments."