Skana went by the apothecary shop first, and this time she took her time about it, there was no need to rush, and in such an early hour still with the sun barely up, the streets were all but empty except for a handful of people holding long poles with thin black vertical tubes secured into place. They went from one public light to another and covered the lights with the tubes to extinguish the flame, and seemingly gave no notice to her or anyone else.

Finding the apothecary in the daylight was no harder than at night, she had only to follow the sound of rushing water until she reached the river wall again, and then followed the stone to the apothecary shop, this time she could see the mortar and pestle sign as clear as could be and swaying slightly in the breeze.

She looked behind her toward the spot where she cast stones with the old man the night before, ‘Such a sweet old man.’ Skana thought, ‘I hope he gets what he wants.’ She thought and went to the shop.

Predictably, the door was closed. But Skana could see through the display window that there was a balding old man hunched over a pestle, his withered hands grinding away and eyes that probably couldn’t see too well anymore squinted almost to the point of closing. He wore the brown and green robes common to mages who worked with herbs, and not far away an old woman with snow white hair, plump from the loss of youth to time but humming with a voice as full of life as she must have ever been was marking off a list while she looked at a rack full of ingredients.

Skana knocked on the door to draw their eyes, then leaned slightly to the left to put herself in full view of the glass and shook her sack of coins, she smiled and waved, and the old man went back to grinding.

“Marul, get the door would ye, its a customer, and that’s gold in that purse or I’m a priest!” He cackled a little, revealing his toothless state, then went back to grinding as if nothing happened.

The old woman lowered her list and set aside her quill, then shuffled her way over to the door to open it. “We’re not open quite yet, young lady.” She said in a matronly, cheerful fashion, a rosy tint lingered on her cheeks, and Skana might have left it at that.

Except that she saw the woman’s sharp focus on Skana’s pouch. “I’m sure, but I’m out shopping now and I’d rather not have to go and come back… how about I leave just a little bit extra over the usual price to make up for the trouble?”

“So what can I help you find, young lady?” The plump woman asked, her face lighting up while she stepped out of the doorway to allow Skana to pass.

“My companions and I will be traveling soon, so I was wanting to pick up a few potions for safety. It’s on the water so… a potion of waterbreathing would be good. Maybe a weak potion of flight. Also, we’re going to Wenmark, so what would you recommend?” Skana asked, and the couple made a sour face as if they’d sucked on an old lemon.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“A potion to cure disease would do for a start.” The old woman spat with revulsion.

Skana bit her tongue to bite back a sharp response and chose a more passive answer instead, “It can’t be that bad.”

“Hmpf. Don’t mind her.” The old man mumbled, “She’s just dancing.”

“Dancing?” Skana looked down at the old woman’s feet as she let out a ‘hmpf’ of her own and began going from shelf to shelf taking up potions and gently placing them into a nearby basket.

“Right, not from here are you?” He asked, and Skana gave her head a vigorous shake.

“Let’s just say there’s mixed opinions about Wenmark and most of South Qadish by those of us up here on the border. Some of those opinions ‘dance’ a little close to blasphemy.” The old man replied with a grunt of effort over his pestle.

“Hmpf.” His portly wife replied and approached with a basket of a dozen potions which rattled as she set it down on the counter.

“I… see.” Skana replied and leaned over to look down into the basket. “Healing potions?” She reached down and began to sort through them, walking her fingers from one to the next. “I’m afraid I can’t count much, but even so, this looks a mite much, you know? Healing. Waterbreathing. Disease. Poison. And I don’t even recognize those other two. Is all this really necessary?”

The old woman’s lips thinned as she inhaled deeply. “In a word? Yes. Depending on what you’re doing. This,” she tapped the sanguinism potions, “can keep you from being turned into a vampire if you take it within an hour after being bitten. Vampires are still said to appear in some of the old caves and mines down there when their rest is disturbed. And this,” she touched the black necrotism potion, “will keep you from being turned into an undead. You might want that if you get in a situation where you’re going to die.”

“There’s a pleasant thought.” Skana said and picked the potion to prevent undeath, it looked like old blood, blackened and thick. “Is it really that dangerous down there?” Skana asked with a furrowed brow.

“That depends on where you’re going.” The old woman said matter-of-factly. “If just to Wenmark and back, no. But there are slave rebellions every now and then, they shut down major roads when that happens and you have to go a long way around. You never know…” The words teased out Skana’s imagination to all kinds of horrible fates.

“You seem to know a lot about it.” Skana ventured while looking down at the little glass vials.

“I’m from a village in that region, or was, fifty years ago, used to live on the far side of the Undercity Lake actually. Good fishing, but it could be dangerous. Spirits haunt the place. Old spirits of old times.” She chuckled at her past superstitious self, “My da, he used to tell stories about the rock picker, a living shadow that would pick up rocks and carry them all the way here, just to make his wishes again and again in the old way.”

Skana scratched her head, “So he was what, evil?” She prompted.

“Who knows?” The old woman shrugged, “The stories he told came from his grandfather, who he says told that they came from his own grandfather, who heard it from an elven slave that learned it from one of his ancestors. Supposedly encountering the shadow, can be good or bad depending on what he thinks of you. Make it angry and it throws you in the river instead of a rock. Please it, and it may make a wish for you. But that’s just a silly legend. As far as I know it’s never been seen except to turn out to be just some boy throwing rocks and playing pranks, or some fisherman in the shadow of a tree at night or something.”

“Yes, a very silly legend.” Skana agreed and began laying down coins, “I’ll leave a tip for the price of a minor healing potion, call that extra a little bonus for the story and the information.”

“That’ll do, miss, you come back here on your way north again, we’ll give you a discount.” The old woman promised and glowered at her husband when the old man scowled at the offer.

“Deal.” Skana answered, took up the basket, and sauntered back out the way she came.