At times, I do wonder if mercenaries have any wit left in their skulls. This day, a band of them came to me—hired by the lord of the neighboring town to guard his son upon his travels. And what did they accomplish? Aye, they lost him. Now they stand at my threshold, demanding a seeker’s stone, and expect me to bind it to the astral plane, for these dullards brought not a single scrap of his raiment. Tell me, then—upon what, pray, should I set the stone?

I bade them fetch aught that belonged to the young lord, and lo, what did they present me? His smallclothes. Filthy, foul-smelling smallclothes. And they dared bring such into my home, where I burn herbs that not a corner be steeped in alchemical fumes. But fret not—I have repaid them well. As they took their leave, I let a draught of water, steeped with arrara, splash upon their boots. Now, for a se’nnight at least, shall the stench of soiled linen haunt their every step. Mayhap they shall learn to show due reverence to an alchemist.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

As for the lad, he was found beneath a tavern bench, drunk beyond reason, and once more did they drag him hither, pleading for a cure for his affliction. And why, I ask, must they trouble me? We have a herbalist in the village—let her home reek of their folly.

Faugh!