18

Alchemy Class

Few things in life were finer than perusing a nice bookshop. It was Sethel’s ritual when entering a new city.

He couldn’t afford anything, of course. His time in this mercenary band had yet to produce sufficient capital, but he always made a mental note for later acquisition.

It’s like an investment. He may not be making anything now, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be, eventually. Their current profits would have to go up at some point, right? It’s not like you can get lower than zero.

He gave up on the section for spell tomes. Low-level telekinesis, temperature augmentation, minor healing for scrapes and bruises; basic things for people with even slight magical alignment, which a number of people had. Things you could find at any bookstore in any city. This wasn’t the great library of Vesterwys, he shouldn’t have been expecting much for a store that was situated between a tavern and another tavern.

Sometimes you find something. Like finding a nugget of gold in a sewer.

An old, battered book. White wings wrapping the sun etched into the leather cover. A religious tale, quite out of fashion now, but still holds a number of faithful followers.

When the Angel descended from the celestial Font of Luminius and gave the creatures of the world a choice: accept their gift, or refuse.

Perhaps the angel did exist, perhaps not. What is clear is that all the greaters share a common ancestor that caused them to split from the lessers and walk upright, and it was clear to him that magic must have been the catalyst.

He had no proof, of course, but as far as religion was concerned, that wasn’t a major requirement.

He didn’t hold much stock in legends, but would be a fool to disregard them entirely. All legends exist for a reason, even if just for teaching children some important lessons.

A group of guards ran past the store window, their shouting and clattering armour breaking Sethel’s wandering thoughts and annoying him immensely.

They yelled something about someone being on a roof and someone getting hit by something, and Sethel did not care in the slightest.

As he tried getting his mind to wander back to where it had once wandered, something caught his nose. A familiar, acidic scent, accompanied by the familiar burning of a bunsen.

Stolen story; please report.

Someone was boiling cyrus bark in an alembic.

Somewhere, there was alchemy happening.

More importantly, there was alchemy happening, and he wasn’t invited.

‘What is the origin of this aroma?’ He demanded at the store owner, slamming his fists onto the counter.

‘...That’s the alchemy class?’ she said, not really sure of the question. ‘We usually hold it upstairs in the lab.’

Alchemy class!

Perfect!

He ran upstairs before the owner had the chance to get up and stop him. He kicked the door open, even though it wasn’t locked and was already open.

‘Excuse me?’ said the instructor, not sure what to do in this situation. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes, you certainly may! Do not listen to this charlatan! What is this?’ He looked around, sniffing grounded ingredients, digging through shelves of ingredients, knocking over the vials and mortars. ‘Healing salves? Indigestion tonics? Child’s play!’ He rushed to the shelves and cupboards, collecting a mass of lig heads, ungrot roots, and taxia powder. ‘You think you know potions? Only I know potions!’ And he brought his collection to a cauldron that sat by the window.

‘Um… Excuse me?’ said the instructor, trying their best not to become upset in front of the students. ‘I don’t think you want to-’

‘Silence! We are not creating potions here! This is art!’

He started by filling the cauldron with drakeblood water; a viscous, red liquid found deep underground known for its unique interaction with heat.

Next he squeezed and dripped in the juices of the lig heads; a bulbous flower head from a plant with spiraling leaves.

He broke up and simply threw in the ungrot roots; part of a weed grown in cold climates which can be incredibly poisonous, but also contains healing properties in minute doses.

Lastly, like one would do with powdered sugar on a cake, he drizzled in the taxia powder; the crushed remains of a stone known for its strange property to hold in heat.

He lit the burner beneath and watched the contents lightly bubble.

‘Excuse me!’ the instructor demanded, finally finding his backbone. ‘Just what in the seven hells are you doing?’

‘Real alchemy!’ Sethel exclaimed. This was where he felt at his best; not just creating great potions and magic, but showing everyone. Maybe he’d try teaching the rest of his team some things. ‘Not this nonsense that would only be fit in a child’s classroom! I’m creatin-’ A droplet jumped from the bubbling mass and burned a hole through the floorboards. ‘Oh wait. Too much powder. We should vacate.’

They tried, but a panicking mass of students is like trying to herd bees. Most simply started screaming and others banged into each other.

In a moment of absolute genius, Sethel kicked over the vibrating and frothing cauldron, and pushed its top against the wall.

Sethel stepped back and a great “THOOM” burst forth, pushing the brickwork outwards, and firing the rubble in every direction.

The cauldron settled, and he triumphantly place he foot atop the fallen, black, metal pot

‘And that is how you make a potion!’ He shouted through the hole in the wall, confusion, awe, and abject terror etched into the faces of the instructor and the surrounding children.