Of The Line Of Estelondo: Percival's Tale.

Chapter 16: Death Flows Through The Crack

Métimafoa had sprinted downstream as soon as he had returned the kettle to the stove and lit the fire under it. Due to his previous explorations over the course of the time it had taken him to build the hut, he had located a nearby city named Mistaostiron. It was there that Métimafoa ran, dodging rocks and branches, and slipping on mud patches as his desperation drove him onward to the apothecary's house and shop.

As he crossed the last bridge into the city, nearly running into three people as he ran around the centre fountain and into the marketplace. "Apothecary!" He shouted, his voice lost amid the crowds bustling about inside the building. Around him, people called out to him, obviously not by name, but rather by his race. That is a little bit offensive, honestly. He thought, after being addressed as "Elf" for the umpteenth time, but Métimafoa did not even consider stopping to correct it.

He had one goal in mind; one thing to find: the station he kept crying out for in his search. "Apothecary!" He called out again, but his voice was heard only by those nearby, and nary one of them sought to take a moment from their personal business and see to his desperation. "Excuse me," he asked as he tapped a tiefling male on the shoulder. "Do you know where the Apothecary is? I am new to the town, and I need help. My sister has—" He was cut off as the tiefling pushed him back and he stumbled into the booth of a jewellery maker, knocking over a table of necklaces in the process. "Sorry!" Métimafoa apologised, quickly picking up the table and jewellery before running back into the fray that was the main hallway; a simple five-unit construction of posts, tarps, beams, and blankets that was lined on each side by sales booths of all varieties.

Which of course was why he could not find the one shop he was looking for; where does one find the needle in a haystack when the haystack is also filled with nails?

It took him nearly an hour to see the small wooden sign with the word "potions" written on it, but the moment Métimafoa had found it, he charged in without delay. Once he was inside, he very quickly noticed the small fire over-which a smaller cauldron was boiling. It was the only source of light in the booth, giving it an eerie feel even at midday as it was. Standing over the Cauldron was a small old dwarven male, skinny as the willow staff that leaned across the counter nearby. "I take it you are here with a remedy in mind?"

"Not exactly,"  Métimafoa answered. "I have an ailment to identify and cure."

"Other than being out of breath, you seem to be in perfect health, little elf." The dwarf set down the leaf he was tearing up and faced Métimafoa. "Who is dying that you seek me with such urgency?"

"My sister," Métimafoa said in a panicked voice. "She was struck by a poisoned crossbow bolt and I need help identifying the poison and curing it."

"Is she well enough to travel?" The dwarf asked reaching over the counter for a small booklet titled Poisons and Their Cures.

"No. She has been sick for nearly a month."

"Alacrin's Nose!" The dwarf cursed. "Why did you not send for me sooner?"

"We did not realize that it was poison until earlier today."

"Do you at least have the bolt, foolish elf?"

Métimafoa's concern was so great that he could have cared less about the insult. "Uh... No. She ripped it out while we were running from the people who were trying to kill us."

The dwarf paused mid-thought. "Alright, that is perfectly fair, but it is going to cost us quite a bit of time." He opened up the small leather bound journey, and cast an illusion spell on it, causing the contents to float in the air as a list. He began swiping poisons off the list, and they disappeared shortening the list. "Alright, little elf, I need details. Everything you know has to be presented to me, and be quick about it."