Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Tales from Year's End (Diloontier’s Apothecary)

Commissioned by the Knights of the Firelance as well as the Sons and Daughters of Samular, the alchemist Vexter Diloontier had worked for weeks brewing healing potions and gathering resources for the attack everyone feared was coming. There was a solidarity movement in Waterdeep and it did not matter who you were or what gods you revered- nearly every man and woman, noble or commoner felt the need to defend the city.

Vextor was born in nearby Amphail but the recent dire winter forced him to move to Waterdeep where he acquired a shop and began to contract out his skills. He was able to hire on a couple of assistants, and while the two journeymen were skilled and allowed Vexter to meet deadlines, their racial hatred for each other as well as the general dislike for the two by many goodly folk of the surface… having a drow and a svirfneblin together is risky business practice.


Gort Ta’alen is an ignorant savant, slow in all mannerisms short of gladiatorial ya-ha but a brilliant alchemist- a natural at brewing just the right amount of ingredients to produce maximized effects. He also possessed a natural talent at inventing unique poisons and says he could devise a poison to have anyone of hundreds of results he claimed to be able to craft. Vextor was happy to have his help.

The diminutive Mortos Ironbeard however, swore and used vulgarity at every turn and delighted in taunting Gort with expletives that went unheeded by the slow witted drow. Vextor was impressed with the svirfneblin after learning he had a unique magical ability trait that enabled him to craft his alchemical transmutations quickly.

It was late evening and all three alchemists and retired early for the day knowing that the next twenty four to thirty six hours would be a trying time for the city and her peoples. But Vexter was up and alert when the city-wide alarm sounded. All three men took remedies to make their sleep light and shorten their reaction times. They were dressed, armed, and in the potion repository in thirty seconds.


The repository was the storehouse for the hundreds of restorative and curative potions they brewed; medicines that would be needed in the hours to come. Vextor Diloontier’s role would be to stand and wait for a rider or raven to tell him where the potions were needed and to take them there.

As they waited riders could be herd galloping through the cold cobblestone streets. Standing in the alley, it was hard for any of them to tell where the rider was heading. Then a fright so powerful rose from them like a fierce desert wind, fear wrought sweat pasted their exposed skin. They all felt like running in a panic- it did not matter where just RUN!

Then a curious sensation blew over them; now instead of fear it was a deep carnivorous thirst. It was as if the sudden violent sweating depleted Vextor, Gort and Mortos’ bodily fluids leaving them dehydrated. Suddenly they were overcome by the thirst and turned to the only thing to drink that was readily available… the healing potions.


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