As Skrakch stared down at the cauldron full of boiling pitch, while idly noting the rather steep price of the ingredients currently going to waste as they melted, the Ratling struggled to resist his urge to let out a long-suffering sigh.
“Damn it Ripper, I just told you this yesterday. You have to let the ‘Displacer Ash’ settle into the mixture for half an hour before pouring it into the damned pot. This whole batch is going to be a lot less effective and that’s on your head.” Skrakch spat out without thinking, before rubbing his eyes in regret.
“This lowly one begs for forgiveness, Honoured Elder!” Came the hurried response. Skrakch watched in annoyance as the servant assigned to this cauldron nearly managed to bash his own head into the floor by bowing low repeatedly.“A thousand lashes would be a small mercy for this one’s sins.”
‘For the love of Gods Below and Above…’
Skrakch watched the display with bewilderment, even as the dozen of other Ratling servants who’d been hard at work nearby moments before, suddenly found themselves a task to do that required them to be somewhere else, Immediately.
From the inflamed redness of his ears, the bowing Ratling named Ripper was either beside himself with embarrassment, or about to keel over from heatstroke.
Considering the blackened wool servant’s outfit all of Zach’s ‘newest hires’ all wore, it could be either. Hells, it was likely both.
Ripper was one of the youngest Iskrin out of the whole bunch, the Ratling still suffering from overly large ears and feet that immediately outed his age.
Of course, Iskrin aged much more rapidly than humans, so the kid could be anything from six months old to a year. He even reminded Skrakch a little of himself, a stuttering, stammering mess whenever his old Young Master took umbrage with his actions.
‘But my fur is definitely twice as luscious… definitely.” Skrakch blatantly lied to himself, wondering once more where Zacharias had found such impressive ‘hired’ help.
Brown Ratlings weren’t uncommon in Dray’Mel compared to some of the fairer races like Pixies or Gnomes, but to get such a large number of them in one place like this?
‘He must have bought out an entire shipment of the poor buggers as they first arrived. But that still didn’t explain their competence or their physical quality…’
While Skrakch himself was clearly an exemption, most Iskrin living on the surface had clear signs of neglect or malnourishment sported across their bodies. Spotted patches of missing fur, bent tails, even clipped ears if they’d been sold in large enough numbers.
But Ripper had a truly flawless set of fur, he spoke in near perfect Common, and seemed remarkably quick on the uptake when Alchemy was concerned.
The young Ratling wasn’t even the brightest of the bunch, though he was certainly up there. No, the entire lot of them were unlike any brown-furred Iskrin Skrakch had ever known… outside of himself.
Still, for all their surprising intellect, it was clear as day they considered themselves one thing and one thing only. Servants, and not particularly cherished ones.
Even as Skrakch pondered the predicament for the dozenth time, Ripper was still bowing repeatedly, though it was clear he was starting to get woozy on his feet.
Worse yet, this wasn’t the first time Skrakch had let a bit of his displeasure be known and sadly it wasn’t even the most drastic of responses. At least Ripper was just stuck in a loop of apologies and prostration.
One of the workers had fainted on the spot at a minor beratement and had fallen into an active cauldron. Skrakch had nearly been dragged in himself as he’d grabbed the poor Iskrin’s tail and yanked him clear of the liquid but not before the comatose Ratling had gotten completely soaked in the acidic mixture.
‘Hopefully all his fur will grow back…’
Shaking his head to clear away his wandering thoughts, Skrakch reached down to steady the younger Iskrin that was still bowing before him.
“It’s fine Ripper, it’s fine!” Skrakch consoled him, tugging the younger Ratling’s loose workman's apron tight and holding him upright. “I just wanted to know why you made the mistake, there’s no need for bowing or damned lashings of all things!”
As Skrakch watched the young Ratling take a few steadying gulps of air, he tried to keep his face schooled neutrally in a look of placid calm. It had been nearly five days since he’d agreed to help with Zach’s idiot idea, and Skrakch was regretting every moment.
It was the first time Skrakch had really had a chance to interact with other brown-furred Iskrin and the experience wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
When you spent your entire life being treated as a leper, it wasn’t uncommon to fantasize about a reversal of fortune. Finally having people bow down before you as you basked in the respect you were due.
‘Turns out it’s actually worse somehow.’ Skrakch resisted the urge to chortle, knowing it’d just cause more issues. ‘At this point I’d almost prefer to have someone toss an insult my way, or aim a bottle at my head… actually no, fuck that for a load of bollocks.’
Skrakch was pulled from his thoughts as Ripper finally seemed to get his bearings, the young Iskrin pulling at his blackened wool shirt with trepidation.
“I was letting the ‘Displacer Ash’ settle into the mixture as you asked, when Lord Kristoff arrived and told me to add it immediately. I must have misheard him, because I believed he told me that you had approved the change in recipe.” Ripper finished before he cringed, eyes closed as if expecting a sudden blow.
Skrakch throttled back his urge to huff in annoyance, before intentionally letting out a small laugh in its place. “Ah, I expected as much. You’re doing good work Ripper, but use the method I showed you. I’ll have a word with… Lord Kristoff.”
Hopping down from the small ladder he’d constructed himself, Skrakch began stalking his way through the throng of scampering workers, all while resisting his urge to start swearing left and right.
Kristoff was a persistent thorn in his side, and every moment Skrakch wasted on fixing the Gnomes shortsighted mistakes made him angrier and angrier.
Hells, at first he’d considered rejecting Kristoff’s offer to heal his wounds out of sheer spite but eventually Skrakch had graciously accepted the Gnome’s Divine magic halfway through his first day of guiding the warehouse's efforts.
Worse yet, the Gnome’s healing was truly remarkable, his control over his Mana placing him head and shoulders above poor Meekknuckle.
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
No, the issue was with the fools complete inability to understand -proper- alchemical procedures!
All of Skrakch’s various potions and elixirs had been created the old fashioned way, each concoction created one at a time throughout his life and stored away for the perfect moment.
It was a slow and gradual process, and the effort in each moment reflected that fact. Conversely, managing four oversized cauldrons of wrought iron steel was harder on his body then he’d believed possible.
All made that much harder by Kristoff and his gracious help.
Skrakch was hardly an expert nor was he close to rivalling Wujeeta from the Alchemist Guild, but he had an inquiring mind and a certain degree of perfectionism towards the art of Alchemy in his heart.
Recipes were the products of years of processing and experimentation, often times passed down from master to student, refined to be as optimal as possible before they were painstakingly written down in scrolls or books. All for the sole purpose of elevating the craft for any who had the will or the wit to secret out the process from the dusty old scrolls.
“…What you aren’t supposed to do, is just toss massive bits and pieces into a bowl and just assume it will work out!” Skrakch spat the words out, not even caring that he’d simply began ranting in the midst of his thoughts.
“The problem with Kristoff is that the Gnome cheats!” The irate Ratling cursed out, glaring at anyone on his path as he made his way to the back of the warehouse.
“He gets away with this sloppy work because he relies on his damnable Mana! His potions are nonsensical gibberish, low quality piles of steaming manure that only function at all, because he Blesses the lot of it as it finishes!”
As Skrakch reached the small entrance way that separated the warehouse from the smaller area that Zach had largely commandeered to use as his ‘office’, the irate Ratling barely slowed his charge, still muttering curses to himself.
Throwing the door open with dramatical flair, Skrakch finished his warpath with an angry shout, “That’s it! I’m done, I quit. I refuse to work with-“
“That idiotic little Gnome. He keeps messing with my stuff, blah-blah-blah.” Zacharias finished with a sigh of his own as he sat at a desk, poring over a rather yellowed book. It was an odd look for the Halfling, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face as he leafed through one of Sykes’ old ledgers.
“Listen mate, it was funny the first few times, but we’re getting bored of it. Even your pet Goblin is sick of it, look at the daft thing.” Zach finished by waving his hand towards Meekknuckle, the Goblin in the midst of building a tower of glass bottles, stacked precariously higher and higher.
“Meek agree with Ugly-Man, Skrakch repeat self too much. Maybe Skrakch just kill little Gnome, so life be quiet?” Meekknuckle answered without looking up from his makeshift glass tower, as Ornn delicately passed him another bottle with surprising gentleness in his stone fingers. “…maybe Meek kill Rat, that make everything much quiet.”
The back room that Zacharias had claimed as his own little workplace was surprisingly small, only furnished with the desk that the Halfling was sitting at, two cots that were jammed into the corner, and the pile of random junk the Halfling had decided to drag over from wherever he’d been living at up until now. Skrakch really didn’t pay too much attention to it. Gods Above would only know what he’d catch!
Ignoring Zacharias, Skrakch turned his ire towards Meekknuckle first, as the sickly green coloured Goblin tried to precariously balance a bottle, straining on his tiptoes for the attempt.
“Don’t get me started on you and that useless lump of rock!” Skrakch half-growled, half-whined as he glared at both Meekknuckle and the lumbering form of Ornn beside him.
Due to the smaller nature of the room, Ornn had been forced to get creative to fit within the confines, and Skrakch had been originally impressed to see how he’d managed it.
Instead of shoving his way inside, Ornn had once more showcased his new ability to shape his own form, sidling up to the furthest wall and spreading himself against it. It had made for quite the intriguing sight at first, his rocky form slowly spreading outwards like a grasping vine.
When he was finished, he blended admirably in with the warehouse's wall, the small room simply getting that little bit shorter length wise as Ornn’s body filled the space.
From there, a small boulder shape had settled into a corner, no doubt housing his Core, as a smaller clump of earthen clay still towered over the trio of shorter races.
“I told you and Ornn to get rid of Zacharias so we could get out of here, and look at you now. Playing with your stupid tower, wasting time…” Skrakch’s chest heaved as he pulled loose a vial of his own and raised it menacingly above his head. “I’ll smash the whole thing, don’t think I won’t!”
“Stupid Rat say that last time too, Ornn stop vial again.” Meekknuckle mocked, turning to stick out his tongue. “Stupid Rat so stuuuuupid-“
The Goblin was in the midst of taunting his companion when he accidentally knocked over the side of his precariously stacked tower, and could only watch helplessly as it shattered against the warehouse floor in a deafening cascade of twinkling shards.
“No! That take Meek all day!” The Goblin exclaimed looking utterly bereft.
“Good riddance, that’s what you get you little-“
As Skrakch was about to continue kicking the heartbroken Meekknuckle while he was down, a sudden cough from one of the cots in the corner had everyone freezing in place.
Meekknuckle was the first to move, heading over to the cot even as he began chanting a prayer under his breath. ‘Meekknuckle beseech Maglubiyet, guide me Mana into healing touches.”
As Skrakch carefully stepped over any bits of glass on the floor, he heard a distinctly angry sounding voice swearing under her breath and the sounds of swishing bedsheets.
“Damn it Meekknuckle, get off me. I’m fine, alright? Where the Hells are we? Did everyone get oot okay?”
Winifred mumbled, her words starting off drowsy and getting increasingly agitated as she no doubt took stock of the unfamiliar location.
As Skrakch peered over Meekknuckle’s shoulder, he couldn’t help the grin that played over his face. While Kristoff had been able to patch up the rest of the Rogues with only minimal grumblings, the damage that Winifred had done to herself was far beyond any of them.
It had been clear enough that Winifred had tapped into something she hadn’t been fully prepared to handle, and her body had paid the price.
During their escape, the brawler looked like she’d aged a hundred years in the span of minutes. Skrakch was fairly confident she’d somehow fueled her use of her Crux by burning up her life force but he wasn’t an expert, and none of them had any idea if she’d recover.
So they’d made sure Winnie was breathing, and made doubly sure she was comfortable, before they’d settled in to wait. There hasn’t been much else they could do, though Meekknuckle stayed beside her bed the entire time, and Skrakch had tried various elixirs and potions that could help her out.
Now though, as she fought her way past Meekknuckle’s probing hands and tore her way out of the tangled sheets, she looked… better.
Her hair had regained its brown colouring, though there were more wisps of grey intermingling than before. Her skin was smoother, though the twenty-something had clear wrinkles on her cheeks, and crow’s feet by her eyes.
It was hard for Skrakch to put an estimate on it, but he’d hazard a guess that Winifred looked to have aged a decade through her life after a single battle.
As Winifred got to her feet and cast a wary eye around her, the pit fighter began to grin before a puzzled look crossed her face.
Staring down at her right arm, Winnie cautiously began turning her arm from side to side as she stared at the bandaged stump.
Even when Meekknuckle had recovered enough to help with healing Winifred, Kristoff had been unable to heal the wound. The cocky prick had muttered something about foreign magics, but Skrakch hadn’t been surprised.
There was power in committing yourself to a desperate attack, and the consequences of such a blow weren’t something a mortal could just shrug off, and apparently neither could a Chosen.
Meekknuckle and Skrakch had been waiting for Winifred to wake up for five days now, but they just stood tongue tied as the brawler tried and failed to hide her grimace, letting her hand drop to her side.
Skrakch had no clue what to say, no idea how to offer his support or admit that he couldn’t help her. It was a quiet moment, as they all struggled to find the words to-
“Finally you’re up, love. Had us all worried, you did. But now that you’re awake, what say we all head to the Plagued Rat. I’ve been going stir crazy, and I’m not even the one missing an arm.” Zacharias said with a smirk on his face, standing up and letting his chair drag on the floor with a shrill squeak. “Could absolutely neck a pint, eh lads?”
As all three of his companions, and possibly even Ornn, stared at him in shock and rage, the Halfling just quirked an eyebrow in return.
“What?”