Fendrel stepped back from his workbench, taking in the rows of vials gleaming in the dim light. Ten vials of Xytherium poison and two of Silkslither toxin - more deadly substances than he'd ever seen anywhere. His throat tightened as he imagined the guard captain's face if they returned for another inspection.
The vials clinked as he arranged them, green liquid casting sickly shadows across the worn wood. Three doses for himself, but that left far too many extras. The memory of boots on cobblestones made his hands shake.
"Can't keep this much here." He picked up a vial, watching the poison swirl. "Another random guy shows up here and I'm done."
His equipment needed upgrades - his copper bowl was wearing thin, and half his measuring tools had seen better days. The black market courier would pay well for the product. With proper tools, he could work faster, more efficiently.
But dealing with them meant risk. Every transaction increased his chances of discovery.
Fendrel's fingers drummed against the workbench. He needed money for ingredients, especially with the parasite demanding more complex substances. The two bottles of venomlily essence alone cost nearly same as all the rest of these ingredients. And I will need more.
"Seven vials." He separated them into a leather wrap. "Keep three for use, sell the rest."
They already know I'm the one making it anyway.
The decision settled like lead in his stomach, but he saw no alternative. The parasite would need feeding again soon, and his supplies wouldn't last forever. Better to sell now, while he had the chance, than wait until desperation forced his hand.
The last rays of sunlight painted the city walls in amber as Fendrel slipped through the winding alleys. His leather satchel bumped against his hip with each step, the vials inside wrapped in cloth to prevent clinking. The smells of rotting leather and stale water grew stronger as he approached the old tannery building.
A cat darted across his path, making him jump. Fendrel pulled the hood lower over his face, cursing under his breath. The streets had emptied in the old district as dusk settled in, but that only made him more paranoid about being followed.
Behind the abandoned tannery, Fendrel pulled out the metal insignia from his pouch. The metal disc caught what little light remained as he hung it on a rusty nail by the alley entrance. He stood near an old crate not daring to sit, wondering if he was wasting his time.
The wait stretched on. The moon rose, casting long shadows through the narrow passage. His legs cramped from standing still, but he didn't dare sit or leave his place. Just as he considered giving up, footsteps echoed off the walls.
"Didn't expect to see you so soon again." The cloaked figure emerged from the darkness, voice carrying a pleased tone.
"I take it you made your profit last time?" The contact nodded. Fendrel took out his satchel, keeping his movements controlled despite his nerves.
"More of the same?"
"Yes." Fendrel retrieved the wrapped vials, passing them over. The contact weighed them in his palm before producing a coin purse that landed in Fendrel's hands with satisfying weight.
"Next time you want to contact us, go into the Maiden's Kiss. Only go there if you want to do business and someone will approach you. We can't keep meeting in the same place."
Fendrel turned to leave, but the contact stepped into his path. "Wait. There's more demand and people are getting curious. If you can produce larger quantities, they would be very interested."
"I had the pleasure already, but I told them I work alone," Fendrel said, keeping his voice steady. "And I set my own pace."
"The money could be substantial."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm not looking to expand operations or get more involved. This arrangement works for both of us - let's keep it that way."
The contact studied him for a long moment before stepping aside.
Fendrel's boots scraped against the cobblestones as he hurried through the darkened streets. The coin purse pressed against his chest where he'd tucked it inside his vest, each step making the metal clink softly. The courier's words echoed in his mind: More demand, more money.
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His hands clenched into fists. They wanted more, how much more? First he couldn't find any customers for his brews, and now? He makes few poisons and he gets the whole market interested?
The familiar creak of his laboratory door brought little comfort. Fendrel lit a candle with trembling fingers, casting wavering shadows across his workbench. The notification pulsed at the edge of his vision, demanding attention:
[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 19 hours
"Shut it," he muttered, though the message remained unchanged.
The parasite had transformed his quiet life of barely scraping by into this twisted dance of illegal brewing and midnight meetings. Each dose pushed him deeper into the city's darker corners, forced him to make deals with people whose names he didn't even know.
Fendrel slumped into his worn chair, running his fingers through his hair. Word was spreading. He could feel it in the way the contact spoke.
His reputation as a failed alchemist had been protection of sorts. But how long is that going to last?
Fendrel dragged himself from the chair and began sorting through his supplies. The shelves looked bare despite the recent shopping spree - only a few stalks of Dralk remained, barely enough for another batch. His fingers traced the empty spots where ingredients should be.
The bone ash barrel remained full at least. He'd spent hours grinding bones yesterday, but the other components worried him. The nightshade essence bottle held maybe four drops worth. The exotic components for Silkslither were completely depleted.
His workbench told the same story - empty vials waited to be filled, measuring tools sat idle. The complexity of these new recipes demanded so many different ingredients. Back when he'd struggled to make basic healing brews and reagents, he'd only needed two or three components total.
Fendrel lifted the loose floorboard beneath his straw bed, revealing a hollow space. The coin purse landed among the other hidden treasures with a heavy thud. Just days ago, this much money would have seemed like a fortune. Now it barely covered what he needed for the next few batches.
He sank onto the straw mattress, wooden boards creaking under his weight. The life of a failed alchemist had been simple - scraping by on odd jobs, avoiding attention. This new existence of midnight deals and deadly potions felt like wearing someone else's skin.
Sleep pulled at his eyes as he stared at the cracked ceiling. He'd crossed lines he never thought he would, brewing poisons that could kill a man in minutes. The parasite's hunger grew stronger with him. He'd have to adapt, learn to navigate this new path he'd stumbled onto.
Tomorrow meant another shopping trip and more brewing. At least its interesting.
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Fendrel's laboratory had transformed into a maze of ingredients and equipment. Stacks of empty vials teetered on every surface, while dried herbs hung from the ceiling in dense clusters. The familiar scent blue cap mushrooms lingered in the air, mixing with the sharper notes of widowvine sap.
He dropped his shopping basket onto the workbench, scattering a few copper coins across the worn wood. The morning market had been quieter than the usual buzz in the noon - perfect for someone who hated crowds. Even so, the cleaner streets and better-dressed commoners of the lower districts had made him conscious of his worn clothes and unwashed hair. How long was it since he last washed himself?
The notification kept floating in the corner of his eye:
[PARASITE STATUS]: Next dose required in 10 hours
"The break is about over." Fendrel stretched, feeling the tension creep back into his shoulders. Ten hours left.
He pulled an old tome from beneath a stack of papers, dust falling from its pages as he opened it to a brewing process he studied as basics in the academy, but didn't have use for since he started on the path of alchemy:
[POTION BREWING PROCESSES]
Infusion Method
Cold Extract Process
Crystallization Process
Fendrel traced his finger along the yellowed pages of the old tome. The complex diagrams of advanced distillation setups and crystallization chambers mocked him. His own worn copper pot and basic burner looked pathetic in comparison.
Infusion its, at least it scales with the ingredient ratios. He decided to make five at the start.
He filled the pot with half a liter of the purified water from the church, the memory of marble halls and judgmental stares made his skin crawl. The water rippled as he set it over the flame, steam rising in lazy curls.
While the water heated, he crushed the bluecap mushrooms with practiced motions. The earthy scent filled his small workspace. Different from the sharp, acrid smells of his recent work.
The water reached a simmer, tiny bubbles breaking the surface. He added the crushed mushrooms, watching the water turn a murky brown. The steam carried the mushroom's essence through the room.
His shoulders relaxed as he measured out the dried petaline herb. This was familiar ground - no deadly precision required, no risk of toxic fumes. Just simple brewing.
The mixture darkened as he stirred in the herbs, then slowly shifted to a deep red. He strained it through a clean cloth, the liquid flowing smooth and clear into the waiting bottles.
Five small vials sat before him, each containing a basic healing potion. Not particularly potent compared to what properly equipped alchemists could produce, but they'd do the job. He corked the last bottle with a satisfied nod.
The church's purified water had been worth the discomfort of obtaining it. Those pristine halls with their perfectly polished floors had set his teeth on edge. Everything too clean, too orderly, too unlike the messy reality of his life in the slums.
Fendrel wrapped the healing potions in cloth, tucking them into his worn satchel. The market square bustled with activity as he made his way through the crowd, dodging past fruit vendors and textile merchants. He found an empty spot near the edge, away from the main thoroughfare where the established alchemists had their permanent stalls.
He laid out a threadbare blanket and arranged his potions in neat rows. The red liquid caught the morning light, though the color appeared less vibrant than the deep crimson you would get with the cold extract. Still, I'm way cheaper then others, it should sell.