The horned slug appeared to glare eyelessly for a moment up at him as Gritgoz resealed the gourd and replaced it within the folds of his clothing.
‘So much more work to do with you yet little dark one’ he muttered to himself
‘Not just yet though’
Gritgoz still had plenty of ideas to try out on his new slimy friend, but that was a task for another time. He turned away from the window which looked out on an alley behind the Jolly Cockle and refocused on the three containers he had placed to cool in the middle of his room. He observed them left to right, in order of increasing interest. Each experiment contained a mixture of a sample of contagion and a second unique ingredient.
First the mutant Sköll blood. No interaction with the Redrot. He poked at it with a long wooden rod he kept about his person at all times for all his poking needs. Dried together in a mostly solid clot, no synthesis or viable interaction. Not interesting on the face of it, but it could imply that Redrot was unable to infect other sentient races. Not conclusive, but a useful possibility to keep in mind.
Next, Jek Jek’s venom. An interaction between both components appeared to have produced a dark crimson ichor. In a practiced movement, Gritgoz transferred a few drops of the solution between two panes of specially designed glass and held to up to the light to peer at them.
‘Still looks like poison… but pattern of the lattice is not quite typical…’ he murmured to himself.
The spider toxin had not killed the growth, but seemed to have morphed into a strange hybrid. Making an educated guess it appeared likely the mixture would kill a host and leave the Redrot essentially unharmed. Not useful as an antidote but perhaps…Gritgoz eyed his scimitar at the foot of the bed… useful as something else.
Finally Gritgoz approached the yellow musk concoction, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he did so. The most curious result of all, pollen retrieved from the creeper appeared to have absorbed all Redrot particles within the gourd container and had become swollen and slightly soggy in the process. Fermentation was occurring slightly at the edges and its luster implied an active chemical process. If the Redrot could be absorbed by another compound, perhaps it could be drawn out of the body entirely? Not with the sample in this state though…the possible side effects could be devastating to a Goblin colony.
He needed to learn more about the Yellow Musk Creeper. What were its known properties? Where could it be found? What medicines could be formulated from its pollen? A late night trip to the library was in order. Gritgoz replaced his leather hood to hide the growth on his forehead, grabbed his weapon just in case and headed downstairs.
The inn had grown busier during the few hours he had been working. The townsfolk had begun to filter in larger numbers to spend another evening unburdening themselves of their hard earned coin. He weaved his way through the throng of legs and managed to avoid Throkk. The last thing he felt like having right now was company. That said, the half orc did have such an admirably direct way of dealing with things it was reminiscent of the great Broklug. Gritgoz was going to remember fondly the look on Morkubb’s babbling face the moment before Throkk knocked him out. Pity he hadn’t been conscious when he went over the cliff, the baby killing k’gratk…
He left the inn unnoticed and stepped out into the main square. The sun was starting to dip in the sky as he crossed the plaza on his way to the library. As he had already done the necessary by informing Luca of the company’s qualified success he was now at a loose end for the rest of the day. He was still fuming at the lack of urgency the party had shown on the bridge and needed to clear his head by being by himself for a while. Research always helped him see things more clearly.
As he walked he sniffed the air and grimaced at it’s foulness. He had no patience for cities at the best of times, and today Vicetina irked him more than usual. The people seemed more on edge, and the Namtharites walking about in shiny armour radiating smug confidence made him want to pack up and return to the mountains. However this was not yet possible. First he had to finish his task, then he could leave the humans to their scheming and power games. The letter he received in the woods made it seem even more likely that Max knew something about Redrot, and if she possessed the knowledge he sought he might yet be able to save his clan. He would visit her in the morning, but first to the business at hand.
As he approached the library, he beheld a faded poster newly pinned to the main entrance’s door-frame. Dozens of small holes showed that it had been used as a makeshift noticeboard many times before. The poster bade passers-by to…
“Join us tonight for the weekly Vicetina book club! This week we are reading ‘Orious Quickblade. An Autobiography. The Sage, the Mage and the Rage!’ we would love to hear your thoughts, join us late into the night for a city funded community outreach discussion and a small supply of complementary beverages!!! – Conan ‘
He was in luck, the library would be open for some time yet. He padded inside, closing the door behind him, his ears twitching as the sounds of a merry conversation echoed from a small room to his left. Two figures were slumped in leather armchairs around a large pile of books which acted as an improvised table. One was the librarian Conan, the other a ginger haired man Gritgoz didn’t recognise. In front of them were two tapped ale barrels and on the floor a small forest of mugs and tankards. The sound of in depth literary analysis could be heard throughout the library.
‘Y’see….. some people prefer Orious the barbarian *hick* But me? Wos’name…I prefer… Or -e-us the mage!’ Declared the man Gritgoz didn’t know.
‘Y’should stick to that blacksmithing….he was at’is best when….. when-hewuza-sage’ came the slurred reply from a gently swaying Conan.
This exchange was accompanied by the sounds of tankards being refilled.
‘S’good point’ replied the first bookworm, and the pair clinked receptacles to emphasis this elegant and considered reading of the text at hand.
Gritgoz smirked as he quietly made his way upstairs to the section he needed, no sense in disturbing this productive debate. A drinking night disguised as a book club. Of all the tall folk he had met, Gritgoz found Conan to be the most pleasing. He would bet money the scoundrel hadn’t even bothered to change what book they were pretending to read in years.
His thoughts returned to the letter as he searched for a book he knew on exotic plants. So Max was on edge after hearing a Goblin had been asking about an obscure disease at the infirmary? Strange. Was she concerned for his safety, or worried that a Goblin was on the trail of a cure?
Perhaps he should bring one of his companions with him tomorrow in case her intentions were malevolent? But which one of them could be most trusted to remain discrete? What of the diagram of a goblin he had discovered in her study, apparently bearing signs of Redrot. His left hand idly traced the leather covering his forehead. So many questions, but answers were coming…he could almost taste them.
Eventually he found the codex he was looking for. Voynich’s Flora and Fauna of Vaul, 13th edition. Depositing himself in a secluded nook behind a staircase ,he lit a nearby candle set in the wall and settled down to read. He mumbled to himself as he searched the index at the back and stifled a yawn. By Skrak’s teeth he was exhausted from the walk today.
‘Yaga-Shura Sheep… Yanglot (Bladed)….Yellow Bull Goblin…There you are…. Yellow musk creeper… page 812…’ He thumbed the dusty volume to the entry and observed that the accompanying illustration appeared speculative at best.
Ignoring the drawing, he began to translate as best he could, all the while doing his best to keep his eyes open in spite of the tiredness. Frankly the text in front of him didn’t help.
Take heart young quaking acolyte! Ye olde yellow musk creepers be not indigenous to Vaul anymore, but old records and descriptions exist from eras past. Lo when the twin gods Namthar and Alastor did walk amongst primal races. Nay records exist of them since and they be named as “extinct “ or “legendary flora”. The mystics say the biggest could grow large and sweet enough to intoxicate and enthrall (Here Gritgoz has difficulty translating the old common) the giant ones who walked on their hands and …..cave painting of ….winglizard. It doth have some similarities to a much smaller less vicous…. planting ……east known as the dogcharm (poor translation)….. farmers burn to prevent their livestock……acting strangely….. guarding the plant rather viciously. The pollen of which can be ….. wolfsbane and strong alcohol solutions then….. sunlight to create a powder…. have a similar effect.
He put down the book, closed his eyes and thought deeply, halfway between sleeping and awake. An ancient plant not native to these lands found in the heart of the emerald wode. Was this the dryads doing? Or something else? Either way this was not good news for his experiments. If the creeper was thought to be extinct he would have to be careful in how he intended to use the remaining sample. Though this ‘Dogcharm’ the book spoke of might prove a possible substitute if he failed to…For a brief instant he felt hot breath on he back of his neck, and a flash of insistent hunger washed over him. His red eyes shot open as animal panic rose in him and he spun around, scimitar in hand, but there was nothing there save a dimply lit wall and a few rogue volumes. He scanned the darkness for any sign of a living creature but there was nothing there, nothing at all.
But there was no mistaking that sensation. It was as he had feared. The watcher he had felt stalking him in his slumber had not been a figment of his imagination or a dream conjured up by a piece of rotten mango. What had the poem called the thing? Gritgoz had worn the bodies of many animals. Rabbits, wolves, even an earwig once. He knew what the mind of a predator felt like, and he felt one now. Hungry, focused and wilful.
A burst of jovial drunken laughter downstairs helped ease his terror, but not by much. He needed to return to the others. Max might be a good lead for discovering a cure but it would do his tribe no good if he was dead. He sheathed his scimitar, crept downstairs and exited the building.
As Gritgoz recrossed the plaza he glanced up at the city walls. They were tall, thick and strong, but they did not make him feel secure in the least. He turned his gaze to the Jolly Cockle and hurried towards its inviting doorway. The name of ‘Iron Stars’ was outlawed now was it? No matter. Whatever name they would go by now, he knew what their next job was going to be. He hoped Tilda was still at the inn…